Go,  GET'EM  ! 


A.  WELLM  AN 

Mardchal   des  Log; 
OP  THE  LAFAYETTE  FLYING  C« 


GO,  GET  'EM! 


SNAPSHOT  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  TAKEN 
"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 


Go,  Get  'Em! 

THE  TRUE  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  AMERI- 
CAN AVIATOR  OF  THE  LAFAYETTE  FLY- 
ING CORPS  WHO  WAS  THE  ONLY  YANKEE 
FLYER  FIGHTING  OVER  GENERAL  PER- 
4,  SHING'S  BOYS  OF  THE  RAINBOW  DIVISION 
IN  LORRAINE,  WHEN  THEY  FIRST  WENT 
"OVER  THE  TOP"  9  9  *  *  *  * 


WILLIAM  A.  WELLMAN 

MarecHal     des     Logis    of     Escadrille    N.    87 

^W  ith      Introduction      and      Notes 
£y   ELIOT    HARLOW    ROBINSON 

ILLUSTRATED 


THE     PAGE    COMPANY 
BOSTON  *MDCCCCXVIII 


dl^  TSfc 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  PAGE  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  September.  1918 


So 

MY  LITTLE  MOTHER 


. . 


W  V 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  was  a  drowsy,  peaceful  day  in  early  May. 
War  seemed  remote,  an  evil  unreality.  Lured  from 
my  writing  by  the  insistent  call  of  Spring,  I  left  my 
desk  and  strolled  instinctively  toward  Boston's 
breathing  space,  the  "  Common  "  of  historic  memo- 
ries, whose  easterly  mall,  honored  in  bearing  the 
name  of  Lafayette,  was  now  lined  with  a  row  of 
trim  green  and  white  cottages  dedicated  to  the  com- 
fort of  the  boys  who  wear  the  khaki  or  the  blue. 
Before  the  little  stage  in  front  of  one  I  saw  gathered 
a  thronging  crowd  that,  from  a  distance,  gave  the 
impression  of  many  drones  clustered  about  the  open- 
ing of  a  hive. 

Such  assemblages  had  become  every-day  sights 
and  I  moved  toward  it,  impelled  by  a  mild  curiosity 
merely;  but,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure 
which  was  leaning  over  the  railing  in  an  attitude  of 
stirring  appeal,  my  steps  quickened. 

vii 


viii  Introduction 


The  form  was  that  of  a  stalwart  young  man  clad 
in  the  horizon  blue  of  the  French  army.  The  uni- 
form stirred  my  pulses,  but  it  was  not  that  alone 
which  now  drew  me,  magnetlike.  It  was  rather 
that,  even  from  my  distance,  I  could  recognize  the 
bearing  and  familiar  gestures  of  a  youth  whom  I 
had  known  from  his  childhood  and  had  seen  grow 
up  into  young  manhood  from  a  lad  after  whom 
Mark  Twain  might  well  have  patterned  his  "  Tom 
Sawyer/'  or  T.  B.  Aldrich  his  "  bad  boy." 

I  pressed  my  way  through  the  eagerly  listening 
crowd  until  I  was  close  enough  to  the  speaker  to  see 
the  two-Winged  gold  and  silver  insignia  of  the 
Lafayette  Flying  Corps,  the  bronze  Croix  de  Guerre 
suspended  from  a  ribbon  upon  which  gleamed  two 
palm  leaves  of  victory,  and,  above  it,  the  narrow 
strip  of  multi-colored  cloth  which  mutely  told  the 
story  of  a  wound  received  in  service. 

Others  were  drinking  in  the  lad's  stories  of  bat- 
tles waged  in  mid  air  by  the  immortal  Gunemeyer, 
Frank  Baylies,  David  Putnam  and  Tom  Hitchcock 
—  one  of  them  dead,  one  soon  to  make  the  supreme 


Introduction  ix 


sacrifice  and  one  a  hapless  prisoner  to  the  Hun ;  — 
but  my  thoughts  would  not  behave,  and  rather  kept 
racing  back  to  those  days,  so  short  a  while  ago,  when 
I  had  seen  the  boy  dashing  down  the  field  on  a 
quarterback  run  to  win  a  hard  fought  game  for 
Newton  High ;  stopping  a  difficult  grounder  at  short, 
and,  with  ease  and  precision,  snapping  the  ball  to 
first  base  ahead  of  an  eager  runner;  or  outflying  the 
skating  pack  in  a  hockey  rink;  for,  prior  to  going 
"  over  there  "  to  take  a  notable  part  in  the  greatest 
game  of  all,  he  had  been  an  athlete  par  excellence. 

Spoken  unconcernedly  came  the  words,  "  My 
Nieuport  flew  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles  an  hour, 
unless  the  wind  was  with  it,  when  .  .  ."  and  I  shud- 
dered involuntarily,  for  I  remembered  the  first  and 
only  time  that  I  had  entrusted  my  precious  life  to  a 
motorcycle,  having  climbed  up  behind  the  speaker 
upon  his  promise  to  go  slowly,  only  to  be  whisked 
through  the  streets  at  a  speed  which  seemed  to  me 
fully  to  equal  that  of  the  flying  Nieuport. 

"  You  folks  think  that  you  are  getting  a  taste  of 
war  rations.  You  don't  know  what  they  are,"  the 


Introduction 


voice  continued.  "  Why,  when  I  landed  in  New 
York  the  waiter  apologetically  served  me  with  what 
he  called  '  war  bread.'  I  thought  that  it  was  cake" 
The  audience  laughed,  and  his  sally  took  me  back 
to  the  days  when,  as  a  mere  lad,  he  had  starred  in 
every  local  show,  as  comedian,  dancer  and  singer. 

The  lad  sold  another  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
War  Saving  Stamps,  and  ended  his  informal  talk 
with  the  words,  "  I  have  sometimes  been  called  '  a 
hero,'  but  I  want  to  tell  you  men  that  I  am  nothing 
of  the  kind.  The  real  heroes  of  this  war  are  the 
boys  in  the  trenches,  who  often  stand  for  days  in 
snow,  or  mud  and  water  up  to  their  knees ;  who  eat 
what  they  can  get,  and  when  they  can  get  it;  and 
who  never  have  their  names  in  the  paper  unless  they 
are  wounded  or  killed.  They  are  the  heroes." 

Followed  by  a  prolonged  burst  of  applause,  he 
stepped  down,  and  a  husky  sailor  lad  sprang  into 
the  vacated  place  and  shouted,  "  I  want  to  take  issue 
with  what  Sergeant  Wellman  has  just  said.  He 
has  told  you  something  of  what  those  chaps  of  the 
Lafayette  Flying  Corps  have  been  doing  in  the  air, 


Introduction  xi 


though  mighty  little  about  himself  —  it  wasn't  neces- 
sary, you  read  the  papers ;  —  but  I  want  to  say  to 
him  and  to  you,  that  a  fellow  who  has  been  through 
what  he  has,  is  one  hundred  per  cent,  a  man." 

We  thrill  upon  meeting  an  American  hero  of  the 
great  conflict;  the  thrill  is  increased  if  that  hero  is 
a  townsman  of  ours;  but,  if  he  is  also  a  close  friend 
of  long  years'  standing,  it  is  the  greatest  of  all,  and, 
as  I  pushed  my  way  forward  to  grasp  the  sinewy, 
bronzed  hand  of  Billy  Wellman,  the  American  dare- 
devil of  Escadrille  N.  87,  Lafayette  Flying  Corps, 
I  thought  that  none  but  a  real  live  Yankee  lad  could 
have  done  all  that  he  had  done  for  France  and  the 
great  Cause,  and  yet  carry  his  honors  so  modestly. 
And  my  heart  echoed  the  words,  "  one  hundred  per 
cent  a  MAN." 

ELIOT  HARLOW  ROBINSON. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

INTRODUCTION vii 

I    OVERSEAS I 

II    A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  LEGION 19 

III  BACK  IN  SCHOOL 36 

IV  FLYING:     ON  THE  GROUND  AND  IN  THE  AIR  55 
V    AN  "  UPPERCLASSMAN  " 77 

VI  "STUNTS" 99 

VII  BOCHE  BOMBS 123 

VIII  HIGH  SPOTS 131 

IX  LUNEVILLE 136 

X  FLYING  FOR  FRANCE 149 

XI    A    "  MERRY    CHRISTMAS,"    AND    MY    FIRST 

BOCHE 162 

XII  SEEING  RED 179 

XIII  HIGH  NOTES,  AND  A  HELLISH  CHORUS     .     .  191 

XIV  THE  RAINBOW  IN  LORRAINE 207 

XV  INCIDENTS  AND  ACCIDENTS 219 

XVI  OVER  THE  RAINBOW 238 

XVII  HITS  AND  MISSES 255 

XVIII  Two  MIRACLES                                                .  266 


GO,   GET  >EM! 


CHAPTER  I 

OVERSEAS 

ON  the  forenoon  of  Saturday,  the  twenty-ninth 
day  of  March,  Nineteen  hundred  and  Seventeen,  I 
came  dejectedly  out  from  beneath  the  gilded  dome 
of  the  Massachusetts  State  House  on  Beacon  Hill, 
having  just  been  rejected  for  admission  to  the 
Naval  Aviation  service  of  the  United  States. 

On  the  forenoon  of  Friday,  the  twenty-ninth  day 
of  March,  Nineteen  hundred  and  Eighteen  I  was 
honorably  discharged,  because  of  injuries  received 
in  action,  from  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps  of  the 
historic  Foreign  Legion  of  France.  I  had,  eight 
days  previous,  been  shot  down  from  a  height  of 
something  over  three  miles  above  the  lines  in  Lor- 


Go-,  Get  'Em! 


raine,  held  by  the  Rainbow  boys  of  General  Per- 
shing's  original  Expeditionary  Force. 

The  twelve  months'  period  which  intervened  be- 
tween those  two  dates  covers  what  I  have  reason 
to  believe  will  be  the  most  interesting  and  thrilling 
chapter  in  my  Book  of  Life  when  it  is  finally  closed. 
Yet,  unlike  many  chapters  of  "  hair  breadth  'scapes 
and  moving  accidents,"  I  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
live  it  —  or  most  of  it  —  over  again,  and  it  is  my 
sincerest  hope  that,  before  the  present  ghastly  war 
is  ended,  I  may  at  least  have  the  chance  of  living 
out  its  sequel,  in  the  uniform  of  my  own  country. 

I  write  this  in  no  spirit  of  bloodthirstiness  or 
bravado.  I  have  more  reason  than  most  for  want- 
ing to  see  the  war  end,  and  my  hope  that  it  may 
not,  until  I  am  able  to  get  back  into  the  fight  among 
the  clouds,  is  based  upon  the  firm  belief  that  an 
early  peace  would  mean  but  one  thing  —  VICTORY 
FOR  THE  HUN! 

And  "  Peace  without  Victory,"  or  any  peace, 
short  of  a  complete  and  crushing  victory  for  Amer- 
ica and  her  allies,  would  spell  a  world  catastrophe. 


Overseas 


This  story  of  my  year  in  the  French  service  is 
not  to  be  in  any  sense  a  treatise  on  what  a  Prussian 
victory  would  mean  to  civilization;  but,  before  I 
have  finished  my  narrative,  I  hope  that  I  shall  have 
shown  you  in  some  measure  why  I  feel  as  I  do. 

That  is  my  primary  object  in  writing  it;  the  sec- 
ondary one  is  in  order  that  those  who  chance  to 
read  it  may  have  a  fuller  conception  of  what  air 
fighting  means  and  is,  for  it  has  already  become 
a  great  factor  in  warfare,  and  will,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve, become  the  greatest  factor  in  achieving  the 
ultimate  decision. 

Finally,  I  hope  that  the  story  of  my  experiences 
and  battles  may  —  in  some  measure  — "  stiffen  the 
sinews  and  summon  up  the  blood  "  of  the  youth  of 
America,  so  that  all,  who  are  able,  will  go  and  do 
likewise,  and  in  fuller  measure  than  has  yet  been 
possible  in  my  case. 

It  is  a  fascinating  game  —  this  flying  and  fighting 
in  the  air  —  and  it  cannot  but  appeal  to  every  red- 
blooded  Yankee,  for  we  are  a  nation  of  athletes, 
and  I  can  truly  say,  having  tried  my  hand  at  al- 


Go,  Get  'Em! 


most  all  branches  of  sport,  that  none  other  begins  to 
compare  with  it. 

Probably,  indeed,  it  was  the  sporting  instinct 
which  first  drew  me  into  the  great  conflict,  for 
I  cannot  lay  claim  to  having  had  any  heroic  idea 
of  yielding  myself  a  sacrifice  for  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity, although  something  approaching  that 
spirit  may  have  later  been  engendered  in  me,  as  it 
must  be  in  every  man  who,  at  close  range,  sees  the 
Barbarous  Hun  in  his  assault  on  everything  that  is 
pure,  fair  and  worthwhile  in  the  world. 

Nor  can  I  lay  claim  to  any  remarkable  foresight 
in  anticipating  in  March  that  America  would  soon 
be  mixed  up  in  the  fight,  and  in  trying  to  get  into 
it  in  the  branch  of  the  service  that  most  appealed 
to  me. 

At  the  time  when  my  decision  was  made  I  was 
twenty  years  old,  living  in  Cambridge,  Massachu- 
setts, and  engaged  in  the  wool  business,  and  for 
some  time  I  had  looked  forward  to  nothing  more 
exciting  in  life  than  the  everyday  battle  in  that 
highly  peaceful  pursuit.  Nevertheless,  the  germ  of 


Overseas 


adventure  was  in  my  blood  and,  as  I  have  hinted, 
every  form  of  athletic  exercise  and  conflict  had 
always  strongly  appealed  to  me.  I  had  engaged 
in  almost  every  kind,  too,  while  in  the  Newton 
High  School  —  where  I  suppose  I  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  pretty  bad  boy  —  and  I  had  fought, 
boxed,  played  football,  baseball,  hockey  and  every 
kind  of  a  mad  prank  all  my  life. 

Doubtless  these  all  had  a  part  in  making  me 
physically  fit  for  what  was  coming,  for  although, 
when  my  major  adventure  began,  I  was  but  five 
feet  nine  and  one-half  inches  tall  and  weighed  only 
one  hundred  and  forty  pounds,  I  was  as  "  hard  as 
nails."  Incidentally,  while  I  was  "  over  there  "  I 
increased  my  height  one  inch  and  my  weight  eight- 
een pounds. 

Some  little  time  before  the  date  of  my  decision, 
the  United  States  had  established  a  training  school 
for  naval  aviators  at  Squantum,  only  a  few  miles 
from  Boston,  on  the  old  field  which  was  once  a 
place  famous  for  the  earliest  aerial  me,ets.  The 
newspaper  accounts  of  the  work  being  carried  on 


Go,  Get  'Em! 


there,  and  the  occasional  sight  of  an  airplane  pass- 
ing high  over  the  city  had  stirred  my  imagination 
and  my  eagerness  to  fly,  too,  until  it  could  not  be 
repressed. 

Without  announcing  my  determination  to  any 
one,  I  went  to  the  State  House  and  put  in  my  ap- 
plication for  enlistment  in  the  air-branch  of  the 
service. 

The  officer  in  charge  of  the  enlistments  ques- 
tioned me  briefly  about  my  life,  and,  when  he  asked 
me  if  I  were  a  college  graduate  and  I  answered  in 
the  negative,  he  told  me  that  there  was  no  chance 
for  me  then,  and  added  that  the  service  was  full 
and  probably  would  be  for  some  time. 

Somehow  this  rejection,  after  I  had  set  my  mind 
upon  getting  into  the  big  game  in  which  I  felt  that 
America  was  soon  to  play  an  active  part,  fixed  my 
determination  to  do  something,  and  do  it  quick. 

Several  chums  of  mine  had  already  enlisted  in, 
and  returned  from,  ambulance  work  at  the  front, 
and  during  the  next  few  days,  while  I  was  on  the 
road  on  business,  I  thought  the  matter  over  seri- 


Overseas 


ously.  One  evening,  in  the  week  which  followed, 
I  was  in  Worcester ;  and  while  there  suddenly  made 
up  my  mind  to  join  one  of  the  American  ambulance 
units,  and  go  to  France  for  the  purpose  of  helping 
French  and  English  lives,  if  I  was  not  to  be  allowed 
to  prepare  myself  to  take  German  ones.  A  Rector, 
living  in  my  old  home  city  of  Newton,  had  told 
me  about  the  Harjes-Norton  Ambulance  Corps  of 
New  York,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  into  that, 
if  I  could. 

Acting  impulsively  on  the  idea  I  called  Mr.  Nor- 
ton —  its  American  sponsor  —  by  long  distance 
telephone,  explained  my  desire  to  him,  and  asked 
if  I  might  see  him  and  be  examined.  His  answer 
was  a  prompt,  "  Yes/' 

Still  keeping  my  plans  almost  wholly  to  myself 
I  obtained  letters  of  recommendation  from  Pro- 
fessor Samuel  Williston,  of  the  Harvard  Law 
School,  a  relative  of  mine,  and  the  Reverend  Ed- 
ward Sullivan,  of  Grace  (Episcopal)  Church  in 
Newton  Centre,  in  whose  choir  I  had  formerly  sung, 
and  went  at  once  to  see  Mr.  Norton, —  a  splendid 


8  Go,  Get  'Em! 


type  of  American  who  had,  I  was  told,  practically 
given  up  a  big  law  practice  to  engage  voluntarily 
in  that  glorious  work. 

He  talked  pleasantly  with  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, asked  me  if  I  could  drive  an  automobile 
and,  upon  being  told  that  I  could,  accepted  my 
services.  I  signed  for  the  customary  six  months' 
period. 

Upon  my  return  home  I  told  my  family  what  I 
had  done,  and,  although  it  was  not  difficult  to  see 
that  the  news  came  as  a  shock  to  my  little  mother, 
she  merely  smiled  and  told  me  that  she  was  glad 
that  I  had  taken  the  step. 

The  period  of  waiting  for  notice  to  leave  for 
France  was  passed  impatiently,  for  I  have  always 
wanted  to  do  things  in  a  hurry.  Meanwhile  Amer- 
ica entered  the  war;  but  the  die  was  cast  as  far  as 
I  was  concerned  —  what  the  future  might  hold  here 
was  problematical,  and  I  was  only  confirmed  in  my 
decision  to  get  to  the  front  at  once. 

Word  came  at  last.  I  was  to  sail  on  the  French 
liner,  Rochambeau  —  most  appropriately  named,  as 


Overseas 


it  eventuated  —  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  May. 

Accompanied  by  my  mother,  I  went  to  New  York 
in  time  to  receive  my  equipment,  which  included  a 
well-filled  duffle  bag  and  everything  but  the  uni- 
form, and  on  the  scheduled  day  I  said  my  fare- 
wells and  boarded  the  ship  bound  overseas. 

The  Rochambeau,  although  a  second-class  liner, 
was  fast.  She  carried  a  good-sized,  mixed  passen- 
ger list,  some  of  my  fellow  voyagers  being  French 
people  returning  home;  but  in  the  main  they  were 
Americans  who  were  "  going  over "  for  purposes 
connected  with  the  war  —  among  them  Miss  Anne 
Morgan,  whose  work  for  the  Red  Cross  has  been 
so  wonderful. 

My  small  stateroom  held  four  bunks,  and  two 
of  my  roommates  and  new  acquaintances  —  who 
were  also  going  to  join  units  of  the  American  Am- 
bulance corps  —  warrant  a  word  of  mention. 

One  was  a  Mr.  Brown  of  Minneapolis,  whom, 
because  of  his  size  and  rotundity,  we  called  "  Bus- 
ter." Like  most  men  of  avoirdupois  he  was  good- 
natured  and  jolly,  and  kept  me  laughing  the  whole 


10  Go,  Get  'Em! 

trip.  One  of  his  favorite  pranks  was  to  climb  into 
his  upper  berth  long  after  the  occupant  of  the 
one  beneath  it  had  gone  to  bed  and  to  sleep,  using 
the  latter's  face  as  a  stepladder. 

The  other,  with  whom  I  became  closely  ac- 
quainted, was  "  Bill "  Cody,  from  Chicago  —  a 
tall,  splendidly  proportioned  young  chap,  who  was 
as  wild  a  Westerner  as  ever  had  been  his  world- 
famous  uncle,  "  [Buffalo  Bill." 

Another  of  the  passengers  with  whom  I  early 
struck  up  a  warm  friendship  was  a  man  who  had 
apparently  been  selected  by  Fate  as  her  agent  in 
changing  the  course  of  my  life.  This  was  Reginald 
Sinclair,  of  New  York,  familiarly  known  as 
"  Duke,"  and  he  was  a  prince.  Later  he  was  to 
be  my  close  companion  in  the  flying  school,  and  the 
biggest  man  there,  for  he  stood  over  six  feet-two, 
and  was  in  build  the  type  which  is  now  winning 
for  our  "  Sammies  "  the  vigorous  name  of  "  Husk- 
ies." "  Duke  "  was  not  an  Adonis,  nor  was  it  his 
wealth  that  earned  him  a  place  well  entrenched  in 
our  hearts,  but  it  was  because  he  was  a  good  sport 


Overseas  II 

and  so  generous  that  he  would  any  time  have  given 
the  shirt  off  his  back  to  help  a  friend.  Perhaps 
the  expression  is  not  well  chosen,  for  at  Avord  most 
of  us  were  quite  willing  to  get  our  shirts  off,  for  rea- 
sons which  you  will  read  later. 

He  was  going  over  expressly  to  enlist  in  the  La-  • 
fayette  Flying  Corps,  and,  as  we  became  ac- 
quainted, and  he  told  me  about  his  plans  and  the 
work  of  that  organization,  he  planted  the  seeds  of 
desire  anew  in  my  own  mind.  During  the  trip 
they  grew  rapidly,  and,  by  the  time  I  had  reached 
France,  I  was  crazy  to  change  over,  especially  as 
my  companions  told  me  that  it  was  done  frequently, 
and  that  the  Harjes-Norton  Corps  was  only  too 
glad  to  have  its  men  do  it. 

There  was  also  another  man  on  board  who  was 
going  for  the  same  purpose  as  Sinclair;  but  I  shall 
not  mention  his  name  —  it  is  not  a  popular  one 
among  American  aviators  of  the  Lafayette  Corps. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  failed  to  graduate  from 
the  first  —  or  "  ground  " —  class  in  the  school  at 
Avord;  but,  when  he  returned  to  America,  he  lee- 


12  Go,  Get  'Em! 


tured  extensively  on  aviation  and  "  fighting  in  the 
air." 

During  the  trip  over  I  proved  to  my  own  satis- 
faction that  I  was  a  good  sailor,  for  I  was  not  sick, 
although  the  Atlantic  was  very  rough.  Aside  from 
the  tossing  we  got,  the  voyage  was  uneventful,  and 
but  two  incidents  on  shipboard  stand  out  in  my 
memory  as  worthy  of  record. 

One  had  to  do  with  a  slender  little  clergyman, 
and  a  fascinating  little  French  actress  who  was  re- 
turning to  Paris  after  performing  all  winter  with 
the  French  Players  in  New  York.  The  passengers 
held  a  Red  Cross  benefit  performance  in  the  main 
saloon  one  evening,  and  her  act  was  the  last  on  the 
bill,  the  announcement  being  made  that  she  would 
be  auctioned  off  to  the  highest  bidder,  whose  would 
be  the  privilege  of  kissing  her. 

She  was  brought  in,  dressed  to  represent  a  flower, 
the  clothes  basket  which  contained  her  being  the 
flower  pot,  and  her  singing  and  dancing  act  was  a 
tremendous  hit.  Then  the  bidding  began  at  a  lively 
rate,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  little  minister  ap- 


Overseas  13 


peared  in  the  doorway.  He  was  just  in  time  to 
hear  the  bid,  "  one-twenty-five/'  called  out.  The 
next  was  "two-fifty/*  and  he  stepped  forward 
eagerly  and  bid  "  three."  Moreover  he  stayed  in 
the  game  until  he  had  bought  her  for  "  five." 

Like  a  good  sport,  although  not  without  embar- 
rassment, he  advanced  to  kiss  her,  amid  laughter, 
cheers  and  applause. 

"  First  pay  the  five  hundred  francs,"  cried  the 
auctioneer. 

"  Five  hundred  francs. "  gasped  the  minister. 
"  Why,  I  ...  I  thought  it  was  five."  It  was  a 
facer  for  him,  but  he  came  to  the  mark,  although 
he  had  to  borrow  from  all  his  friends  in  order  to 
do  it.  I  rather  guess  that  the  experience  taught 
him  a  salutary  lesson  about  mixing  with  Mammon. 

The  other  incident  occurred  one  morning  when 
we  were  two  days'  distant  from  our  destination. 
We  had  been  sailing  unconvoyed,  and  undisturbed 
by  the  new  devils  of  the  deep,  although  every  precau- 
tion had  been  taken  to  guard  against  them,  such  as 
the  closing  and  darkening  of  all  portholes  with  steel 


14  Go,  Get  'Em! 


covers  and  canvas,  and  the  "  dousing "  of  every 
"  glim  "  on  deck  at  night. 

I  was  on  deck,  looking  idly  across  the  sailless 
sea  and  wondering  if  I  should  ever  behold  a  sub- 
marine, when  the  ship  suddenly  veered  almost  at 
right  angles  to  her  former  course,  and  the  look-out 
cried  out  excitedly  and  pointed  over  the  bow. 
There,  bisecting  our  path,  and  only  a  few  yards 
away,  was  a  moving  white  line  which  beyond  doubt 
marked  the  course  of  a  deadly  torpedo. 

The  U-boat  from  which  it  had  been  shot  was 
not  to  be  seen ;  but,  for  some  hours,  the  Rochambeau 
zig-zagged  and  twisted  like  the  pursued  in  a  game 
of  hare  and  hounds,  and  on  that,  and  the  following, 
night  we  were  forced  to  remain  fully  dressed  on 
deck  or  in  the  main  cabin. 

Nothing  happened,  and  there  was  little  excite- 
ment manifested  by  the  passengers;  but  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  the  feeling  of  imminent  danger  was  in 
everybody's  mind. 

I  passed  the  trip  in  playing  cards  and  idling,  for 
the  most  part;  but  I  managed  to  turn  a  little  time 


Overseas  15 


to  profit  by  picking  up  some  rudimentary  French 
from  two  charming  Parisian  children  and  their 
pretty  nursemaid,  who  were  among  those  return- 
ing home. 

Ten  days  after  we  left  America  the  shores  of 
southern  France  showed  on  the  eastern  horizon  and 
brought  to  me  the  thrill  that  every  argonaut  must 
feel  when  the  land  which  holds  his  particular 
golden  fleece  first  appears  before  him.  Our  first 
stop  was  to  be  Bordeaux,  and,  as  we  entered  the 
ever  narrowing  Garonne  River  and  sailed  close  to 
the  banks,  I  gained  my  first  impression  of  the  new 
old-world.  It  was  a  pleasing  one. 

In  the  distance  the  country  rose  in  rolling  hil- 
locks, and  near  at  hand  on  either  side  I  could  see 
the  beautifully  cultivated  squared  off  fields  and  the 
odd  little  villages,  over  the  cobbled  streets  of  which 
bumped  antiquated  appearing  buggies. 

This  sail  upriver  brought  me  also  the  first  aspect 
of  war,  for  we  passed  so  close  to  a  big  fence-en- 
closed field  with  rough  barracks  on  one  side,  and 
holding  several  hundred  German  prisoners,  that  the 


1 6  Go,  Get  'Em! 


passengers  shouted  out  invectives  at  them.  They 
merely  gazed  stolidly  back. 

Presently  we  docked  and  were  examined  by  the 
custom  and  army  officials,  but  my  own  examina- 
tion was  cursory,  for  my  passport  explained  my 
mission,  and  it  took  only  a  moment  to  go  through 
my  meager  luggage. 

At  Bordeaux  my  former  companions  left  me,  to 
hurry  on  to  their  respective  destinations,  and  I  was 
alone,  very  much  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land. 
Everything  looked  odd  to  my  New  England  eyes  — 
the  stone  houses  and  stores,  the  roughly  paved 
streets,  and  the  people,  with  whom  I  had  no  means 
of  holding  conversation.  It  all  engendered  a  pe- 
culiarly helpless  feeling  in  me,  and  this  increased 
as  I  began  to  realize  that  the  passers-by  were  recog- 
nizing me  as  an  American  and  smiling  pleasantly. 

The  address  of  my  hotel  —  the  De  Bayonne  — 
had  been  written  for  me  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  this 
I  handed  to  a  cab-man  outside  the  dock.  He 
nodded,  slung  my  duffle  bag  and  grip  aboard  his 
rickety  hack,  and  I  followed  them. 


Overseas  17 


When  we  arrived  at  the  hotel  I  asked  him,  in 
English,  of  course,  what  the  tax  might  be.  He 
doubtless  guessed  my  meaning;  but  that  was  more 
than  I  could  do  when  he  answered,  of  course  in 
French;  so  I  handed  him  a  five  franc  note  (I  had 
changed  my  American  money  on  ship-board).  My 
jehu  laboriously  counted  out  about  a  handful  of 
strange-looking  chicken-feed  as  my  change  and,  not 
knowing  what  a  proper  tip  would  be,  I  compro- 
mised by  handing  it  all  back  to  him.  He  seemed 
satisfied. 

The  Hotel  de  Bayonne  was  small,  but  astonished 
me  by  its  elaborate  and  almost  gorgeous  decorations, 
and  I  soon  found  that  it  held  an  excellent  restaurant, 
for  this  was  the  first  thing  that  I  visited.  By  fol- 
lowing the  simple  method  of  pointing  at  items  near 
the  top,  middle  and  bottom  of  the  menu  I  obtained 
a  very  fair  meal  of  soup,  veal,  lentils,  bread  and  the 
ever-present  "  confiture  " —  a  sort  of  jam,  without 
which  no  self-respecting  French  meal  is  complete  — 
and  red  wine. 

As  the  pangs  of  hunger  began  to  be  appeased  I 


l8  Go,  Get  'Em! 


paid  more  attention  to  my  neighbors,  many  of  whom 
were  fascinatingly  pretty  French  girls,  with  merry 
lips  and  languishing  dark  eyes.  And  I  could  not 
talk  French !  Right  then  I  resolved  to  master  the 
language  at  once. 

In  the  hotel  was  a  man  who  had  charge  of  ship- 
ping my  ilk  to  Paris,  and  he  gave  me  my  ticket  and 
directions  for  finding  the  depot,  where  an  electric 
sign  pointed  me  to  the  right  train.  No  seats  or 
berths  (it  was  now  evening)  were  to  be  obtained, 
so,  lonesome  enough,  I  stood  in  the  aisle  for  a  while, 
and  finally  took  a  couple  of  blankets  from  my  duffle 
bag  and  went  to  sleep  on  the  floor.  It  seemed  quite 
warlike. 

At  seven  the  following  morning  we  reached  the 
city  with  the  magic  name,  and,  following  the  old 
procedure,  I  took  a  taxicab  to  the  headquarters  of 
the  Harjes-Norton  Ambulance  Corps,  to  report  my 
arrival. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   SOLDIER   OF   THE   LEGION 

THE  very  first  person  whom  I  met  there,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  was  a  tall,  blond  chap  who 
somehow  looked  mightily  familiar.  He  turned  out 
to  be  none  other  than  the  son  of  my  Latin  pro- 
fessor back  in  High  School  days  —  the  only  man 
who  could  make  me  behave,  and  that  merely  by  a 
patient,  troubled  look.  His  name  was  Phil  Davis, 
and  perhaps  I  was  not  glad  to  see  a  countryman 
and  an  old  neighbor ! a  Abroad,  any  one  from  the 
same  city  is  a  neighbor,  of  course. 

We  chatted  for  some  few  moments.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  gone  over  in  the  ambulance  service  and 

1  Philip  W.  Davis,  to  whom  Sergeant  Wellman  gives  much 
of  the  credit  for  his  own  enlistment  in  the  aviation  service 
and  who  was  one  of  the  three  boys  from  Newton,  Massachu- 
setts, who  figure  in  this  story,  was  later  transferred  to  the 
American  Army  as  a  lieutenant,  and  was  reported  to  have 
been  shot  down  behind  the  German  lines  and  killed  on  June 
second. —  THE  EDITOR. 

19 


20  Go,  Get  'Em! 


shifted  to  aviation  —  all  the  red-blooded  men  were 
doing  it  now,  he  said. 

That  was  the  last  straw;  7  determined  to  shift 
immediately. 

Davis  also  spoke  a  serious  word  about  the  real 
war  situation,  and  began  to  open  my  eyes  to  the 
truth,  and  the  desperate  need  of  France.  The  im- 
pression which  his  words  made  upon  my  mind  was 
reflected  in  a  letter  that  I  wrote  home  to  mother  a 
few  days  later,  and  in  which  I  told  her  what  I 
had  done. 

"  Why,  mother,  we  (at  home)  don't  realize  the 
seriousness  of  this  war.  France  is  almost  wiped 
out,  and  they  are  '  playii  j  on  their  nerve/  Most  of 
their  wonderful  men  and  boys  are  gone.  England 
has  started,  but  many  claim  that  if  we  had  not  come 
to  the  rescue  when  we  did,  the  Germans  would  have 
won  the  war  inside  of  six  months.  Their  fighting 
ability  and  their  cruelty  cannot  be  described.  They 
are  devils,  and  unless  appearances  are  mighty  de- 
ceitful they  will  be  able  to  hold  out  for  a  long  while. 
.  .  .  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  Our  Coun- 
try should  not  do  for  France  at  this  time." 

The  words  spoken  by  Davis  drove  the  last  rivet 
in  my  resolve.  I  said  that  I  meant  to  follow  suit, 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  21 

and  he  briefly  outlined   the  necessary  procedure. 

I  went  at  once  into  the  office  and,  after  reporting 
to  Mr.  Norton's  brother  there,  told  him  of  my  de- 
sire and  determination.  He  was  all  kindness  and 
released  me  from  my  former  contract. 

Without  delay  I  found  my  way  to  23  Avenue 
Bois  de  Bologne,  where  I  found  Dr.  Edmund  Gros, 
a  distinguished-looking  man  of  middle  years,  with 
graying  hair  and  a  close  clipped  mustache,  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  Paris  enlistments  in  the  Lafayette 
Flying  Corps.  He  greeted  me  warmly  when  I  in- 
troduced myself  and  explained  my  reason  for  visit- 
ing him. 

After  Dr.  Gros  had  read  my  letters  of  recom- 
mendation, which  I  had  wisely  brought  along  with 
me,  he  said  that  if  I  passed  the  physical  examina- 
tion, which  I  should  return  to  take  that  afternoon, 
he  would  accept  me.  I  lunched  at  a  nearby  res- 
taurant, but,  having  heard  something  of  the  se- 
verity of  the  tests  given  our  would-be  aviators  at 
home,  was  too  excited  over  the  prospect  to  eat  a 
great  deal. 


22  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Then,  after  a  brief  walk  through  the  unfamiliar 
streets,  I  returned  to  Dr.  Gros's  office.  It  was  not 
long  before  I  had  learned  that  the  French  and 
American  examinations,  given  prospective  flyers, 
were  quite  different  things.  When  a  thug  is  pound- 
ing at  one's  very  doors,  the  owner  of  the  house  does 
not  stop  to  search  for  his  latest  model  automatic 
pistol,  but  grabs  whatever  he  can  lay  his  hands  on 
to  beat  off  the  intruder.  That  was  the  case  with 
France.  She  was  not  spending  months  in  devel- 
oping the  most  theoretically  perfect  airplane,  or  in 
securing  and  training  men  who  were  theoretically 
the  best  qualified  to  run  it.  Rather  her  motto  was 
"  get  men  and  machines  into  the  air  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

History  will  write  the  story  of  the  results. 

So  it  was  that  my  examination  was  simple  in  the 
extreme.  It  merely  consisted  of  heart  tests,  after 
I  had  hopped  about  the  floor  a  few  times ;  eye  tests 
by  reading  a  few  letters  across  the  room ;  balancing 
on  one  foot  with  my  eyes  closed  to  prove  that  ^ 
a  fair  sense  of  equilibrium;  and  a  few  other  »,_.. 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  23 

ancing  tests,  during  which  I  was  whirled  around 
on  a  piano  stool  with  eyes  closed  and  then  requested 
to  walk  a  straight  line,  with  them  open.  Weight 
and  measurements  followed,  and  it  was  all  over, 
and  I  was  pronounced  physically  fit  for  the 
aerial  service  of  the  historic  French  Foreign  Le- 
gion, of  which  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps  was  a 
part. 

Dr.  Gros  had  told  me  to  return  to  my  hotel,  the 
France  et  Choiseul  on  Rue  St.  Honore,  and  wait 
for  my  enlistment  papers  from  the  French  govern- 
ment. I  waited  for  two  weeks,  with  my  impatience 
growing  daily,  and,  although  I  found  plenty  to  do 
and  see  in  order  to  make  the  time  pass  pleasantly, 
I  sometimes  felt  that  the  American  motto  of  "  DO 
IT  NOW"  had  never  been  translated  into  French. 
In  my  own  estimation,  my  enlistment  was  quite 
the  most  important  thing  in  the  immediate  carrying 
on  of  the  war. 

However,  from  time  to  time,  I  gained  a  little  in- 

si'*     nformation  on  what  was  before  me,  as  I  be- 

;  acquainted  with  men  belonging  to  the  corps 


24  Go,  Get  'Em! 


who  happened  to  be  in  Paris  on  permission,  whom 
I  recognized  by  their  uniform  and  spoke  to. 

The  thirteenth  of  June  produced  an  incident 
notable  in  my  enforced  stay.  It  was  no  less  than 
the  arrival  in  Paris  of  that  great  American  general 
over  whose  splendid  troops  of  the  Rainbow  Divi- 
sion I  was  one  day  to  be  flying,  although  I  did  not 
guess  it  then. 

He  came  alone,  save  for  a  few  members  of  his 
staff,  being  in  France  merely  to  look  over  the 
ground,  so  the"  papers  said ;  but,  if  he  had  brought 
an  army  of  a  million  men,  instead  of  the  mere 
promise,  his  reception  could  not  possibly  have  been 
more  madly  enthusiastic.  The  afternoon  editions 
of  the  papers  carried  in  big  type  the  announcement 
of  his  impending  arrival,  and  an  invitation  to  the 
populace  to  turn  out  and  greet  him  royally.  They 
did. 

Almost  every  day  something  occurred,  or  some 
band  of  heroes  returned,  to  create  a  burst  of  truly 
Latin  excitement,  but  at  no  time,  there  or  else- 
where, have  I  ever  heard  an  ovation  such  as  was 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  25 

given  General  Pershing  as  he  rode  in  an  open  car- 
riage with  Minister  Painleve  through  the  Grande 
Boulevard,  followed  by  one  containing  Marshall 
Joffre  —  the  idol  of  the  French  —  and  the  Amer- 
ican Ambassador  Sharpe. 

Paris  simply  went  wild.  The  streets  were 
jammed  and  the  crowds  pushed  forward  only  to 
be  pushed  back  again  by  the  dapper  little  gendarmes. 
Men  and  women  laughed  and  shouted  with  joy. 
They,  who  had  borne  three  years  of  anguish  with 
the  most  wonderful  fortitude,  stood  and  watched 
him  pass,  the  tears  streaming  down  their  faces. 
Little  children  threw  him  kisses  and  strewed  flowers 
in  the  streets.  His  carriage  was  filled  with  blos- 
soms. 

And  this  acclaim  was  all  for  just  one  man  who 
had,  as  yet,  done  nothing;  but  the  people  sensed 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  By  George,  I  felt  proud 
and  happy  to  be  an  American ! 

"  Papa  "  Joffre  came  in  for  an  ovation  scarcely 
less  jubilant,  and  why  not  ? 

He  had  been  their  savior  in  the  time  of  their 


26  Go,  Get  'Em! 


first  dire  need,  just  as  Pershing  promised  to  be  now, 
and  he  represented  the  very  acme  of  French  mili- 
tary prowess  and  achievement.  What  a  man  he 
looked,  with  his  massive  head  and  white  hair;  but 
I  could  not  help  feeling  that  Pershing,  thin,  hard 
as  iron,  bronzed  almost  to  the  color  of  an  Indian 
.by  wind  and  weather,  and  with  his  firm-set  lips 
and  bristling  gray  mustache,  looked  even  more  like 
the  real  fighter. 

If  this  were  a  story  of  travel  merely,  I  might 
add  several  more  interesting  and  amusing  things 
about  my  first  experiences  among  the  new  sights 
and  sensations  that  Paris  offers  one  who  visits  her 
for  the  first  time.  But  it  is  not,  so  I  shall  record 
only  two  of  peculiar  personal  interest  —  the  one 
growing  out  of  the  other. 

I  discovered  that  one  of  the  hotel  valets  —  a  short 
but  powerfully  built  little  chap  —  had  some  skill 
with  his  hands,  and  one  morning  was  having  a 
friendly  bout  with  him,  en  neglige,  for  I  have  al- 
ways loved  to  box. 

Somehow,  I  cut  my  foot  slightly  and,  with  my 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  27 

customary  carelessness,  paid  no  attention  to  the 
wound.  The  next  day  I  found  that  it  was  sup- 
purating and  I  recognized  the  signs  of  blood  pois- 
oning, for  I  nearly .  lost  the  same  leg  from  that 
disease  a  few  years  before  after  an  injury  received 
playing  baseball. 

I  went  at  once  to  see  Dr.  Gros,  and,  to  my  great 
disgust,  for  I  was  daily  expecting  my  enlistment 
papers,  he  insisted  that  I  go  for  treatment  to  the 
American  Hospital  at  Nueilly,  outside  of  Paris. 
I  had  to  obey,  of  course,  and  soon  became  recon- 
ciled to  it,  for  my  foot  was  in  pretty  bad  shape, 
and  the  nurses  from  home  were  very  nice.  In 
fact,  the  hospital  was  a  wonderfully  attractive, 
homelike  place  with  its  American  Red  Cross  doc- 
tors, nurses  and  food,  and  the  care  that  I  received 
was  of  the  best.  Three  square  Yankee  meals  a 
day  certainly  seemed  good  to  me,  and  at  times  I 
almost  regretted  that  I  should  soon  have  to  ex- 
change them  for  the  "  poilu "  rations  served  at 
Avord,  concerning  which  I  had  heard  much,  and 
nothing  good,  from  my  chance  acquaintances. 


28  Go,  Get  'Em! 


I  was  put  to  bed  in  a  cheerful,  immaculately 
white  ward,  with  six  other  banged  up  chaps,  all  of 
whom  had  been  injured  in  training  or  in  the  ambu- 
lance service. 

There  I  stayed  seven  long  days,  to  be  discharged 
as  practically  cured,  on  June  the  twenty-third,  by 
which  time  I  was  feeling  as  fit  as  the  proverbial 
fiddle,  although  the  doctor  told  me  to  go  lightly  on 
my  foot  for  awhile. 

One  of  my  recently  made  acquaintances  at  the 
hotel  was  "  Doc "  Cookson  from  Chicago.  That 
afternoon  he  came  for  me  in  a  taxi  and  we  drove 
to  Paris.  When  we  reached  the  Seine,  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  Metropolis  proper,  we  decided  to 
dismiss  our  vehicle-  and  stroll  slowly  in  along  the 
river's  bank. 

We  had  progressed  only  a  few  steps  along  the 
broad  sidewalk  on  the  steep  concrete  embankment, 
when  I  saw  a  pale,  distracted  looking  young  girl, 
clad  in  the  black  uniform  of  a  street  car  conduc- 
tress, run  to  the  railing,  climb  it  and,  before 
I  could  make  a  move,  she  had  thrown  herself 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  29 

with  a  ringing  shriek  headlong  into  the  river  be- 
neath. 

Her  act  was  so  sudden  that  for  an  instant  I 
scarcely  realized  what  she  meant  to  do.  Then, 
with  no  thought  for  my  foot,  I  ran  to  the  spot 
whence  she  had  disappeared.  She  had  not  come  to 
the  surface.  Cookson  said  that  he  could  not  swim, 
and  the  crowd  of  excited  Frenchmen  that  speedily 
collected  either  could  not  or  would  not,  so  it  seemed 
to  be  up  to  me. 

In  a  few  seconds  I  had  stripped  off  my  outer 
clothing  and  shoes,  and  dived  into  what  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  dirtiest  water  in  the  world.  It  was 
perhaps  a  dozen  feet  deep  at  the  spot.  I  would  go 
down,  grope  blindly  along  the  oozy  mud  of  the  bot- 
tom, come  up  to  fill  my  lungs,  and  dive  again  into 
that  liquid  murkiness.  For  fully  fifteen  minutes 
I  kept  this  up,  driven  on,  not  by  any  hope  of  saving 
the  poor  girl's  life,  but  by  an  unwillingness  to  quit, 
until  I  was  almost  exhausted. 

By  that  time  Cookson  and  some  Gendarmes  had 
secured  a  rope,  grappling  hooks  and  a  boat. 


3O  Go,  Get  'Em! 


For  some  minutes  more  we  tried  to  locate  the 
body,  and  at  last  succeeded.  She  was  dead,  of 
course. 

That  night  I  did  not  sleep  a  great  deal,  for  that 
shriek,  the  white,  wan  face  and  stringy,  dripping 
hair,  and  especially  the  thought  that  I  had  been 
almost  exactly  on  the  spot  and  yet  had  failed  to 
save  her  life,  haunted  my  thoughts  when  awake  and 
my  sleeping  dreams. 

Incidentally  I  spoiled  a  good  suit  of  clothes,  and 
opened  the  cut  in  my  foot  and  its  physical  pain 
added  to  my  mental  discomfort 

Still,  the  return  to  the  hotel  had  produced  one 
cheering  bit  of  news.  My  papers  had  come,  and  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  realizing  that  I  was  actually 
a  Soldier  of  France.  To  be  sure,  it  was  only  sec- 
ond class,  which  made  me  the  recipient  of  the 
princely  salary  of  twenty-five  centimes  (five  cents) 
a  day.  For  an  American  to  live  on  any  such 
amount,  even  with  "  board  and  lodging "  thrown 
in,  was,  of  course,  impossible;  but  I  knew  that, 
through  the  generosity  of  Mr.  William  K.  Vander- 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  31 

bilt,  the  Godfather  of  the  Lafayette  Corps,  I  would 
receive  the  additional  amount  of  two  hundred  francs 
(forty  dollars)  a  month. 

It  was  not  the  money  that  interested  me  then, 
however.  Every  day  had  added  something  to  my 
knowledge  of  the  critical  condition  of  France  and 
the  allied  armies,  and  of  the  crying  need  for  men, 
especially  in  the  air,  where  the  war  must  be  won  — 
if  we  can  believe  Lord  Kitchener,  who  had  once 
said  that  one  airplane  was  worth  three  thousand 
infantrymen. 

I  had  read  every  bit  of  news  regarding  the  doings 
home  —  or  rather  had  it  read  to  me,  for  my  knowl- 
edge of  French  was  still  in  the  rudimentary  state, 
—  and  in  a  letter  to  my  mother,  dated  June  twenty- 
sixth,  I  wrote,  "  By  Jove,  we  are  certainly  get- 
ting ahead.  That  wonderful  air  fleet  that  Amer- 
ica has  planned  is  what  we  need !  "  I  left  France 
nearly  a  year  later,  and  had  not  seen  any  of  it! 

On  the  twenty-seventh  of  June  I  went  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  Foreign  Legion  and  took  my 
oath  of  enlistment  for  the  duration  of  the  war, 


32  Go,  Get  'Em! 

and  that  afternoon  boarded  the  train  southward 
bound  for  the  training  camp  at  Avord. 

I  was  alone  at  the  outset;  but  soon  made  the 
acquaintance  of  two  Americans  on  board,  Joseph 
Stehlen,  of  New  York,  who  had  been  in  training 
there  four  months  and  was  returning  after  a  brief 
leave,  spent  (as  it  always  is)  in  Paris,  and  a  chap 
named  Whitmore,  from  Philadelphia,  who  had 
been  laid  up  in  the  hospital,  having  broken  his  leg 
and  injured  his  eye  by  falling  in  his  machine  while 
flying. 

They  appointed  themselves  my  body-guard,  and 
not  only  smoothed  the  way  for  me  at  meal  time, 
for  they  both  spoke  French  fluently,  but  told  me 
many  things  about  what  I  might  expect  in  camp. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  and  fairly  dusk  when  we  ar- 
rived at  the  little  depot  which  bore  the  name  of 
Avord.  There  was  no  town,  the  district  being  a 
farming  one,  but  a  third  —  or  worse  —  rate  hotel 
and  some  half  a  dozen  provision  stores  and  restau- 
rants clustered  about  the  station. 

Several  motor  trucks,  or  lorreys,  from  the  school 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  33 

were  waiting,  and  we  embarked  in  one  of  them  for 
the  drive  out  to  the  field. 

My  first  impressions  of  my  new  home?  I  had 
none.  I  was  crowded  in  between  a  huge  pile  of 
bags  and  boxes,  the  road  was  so  rough  that  I 
jounced  every  inch  of  the  way,  and  my  foot  ached 
like  the  mischief. 

At  last  we  drew  up  at  a  big  gate,  set  in  a  twelve- 
foot  wooden  fence  which  extended  to  right  and  left, 
to  be  lost  in  the  darkness  and  which,  in  fact,  en- 
closed several  fields  so  huge  that  it  took  an  auto- 
mobile an  hour  and  a  half  to  circle  it,  as  I  discov- 
ered later. 

A  sentry  opened  the  gate  to  let  us  pass  in,  and 
we  were  driven  up  to  a  long  row  of  white  shed- 
like  barracks  dimly  lighted  by  oil  lamps.  Before 
them  I  saw  a  considerable  number  of  men  standing 
and  sitting  about.  They  were  obviously  Ameri- 
cans, and  regarded  me  curiously. 

Just  as  I  climbed  lamely  out  of  the  conveyance, 
a  tall,  broad-shouldered  lad,  with  a  frank,  open 
countenance,  crowned  with  blond  hair  that  stuck  out 


34  Go,  Get  'Em! 


"all  ways  for  Sunday,"  came  running  out  of  one 
of  the  doors. 

I  stood  stock  still  and  stared  at  him,  and  he  re- 
turned the  compliment.  The  next  instant  we  were 
gripping  hands  with  mutual  exclamations  of  sur- 
prise and  delight.  It  was  "  Dave  "  Putnam,  since 
become  one  of  the  most  famous  of  American  aces. 
He  was  a  real  neighbor  of  the  old  days  at  home  in 
Newton,  and  a  lad  with  whom  I  had  gone  through 
High  School,  and  behind  whose  sturdy  back  in  the 
football  line  I  had  given  signals  thousands  of  times. 

I  had  not  known  that  he  was  at  Avord,  and  he 
had  not  known  that  I  was  coming. 

Dave  immediately  constituted  himself  my  guide, 
and  took  me  to  the  commissary  depot,  half  a  mile 
distant,  to  get  my  bed.  The  word  certainly  sounded 
attractive,  but  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  the  thing 
that  it  represented.  It  consisted  of  two  wooden 
horses,  a  narrow  wooden  platform,  and  an  evil- 
appearing  straw  mattress  which  looked  as  though  it 
might  be  fairly  alive.  It  was ! 

There  was  no  superior  present  to  tell  me  what  I 


A  Soldier  of  the  Legion  35 

should  do  or  where  I  should  go,  so  I  picked  out  the 
only  vacant  spot  in  the  bunkhouse,  occupied  by 
Dave  and  a  dozen  others,  and  set  up  my  bed  be- 
tween those  of  two  men  who  were  introduced  to 
me  as  Buckley  (he  is  now  a  prisoner  in  Germany) 
and  Dan  Huger,  who  later  developed  heart  trouble 
when  at  the  front  and  had  to  go  home. 

As  it  was  now  ten  o'clock  and  after,  and  I  was 
dog  tired,  I  slid  into  my  blankets  and  tried  to  go  to 
sleep.  "  Tried "  is  used  advisedly,  for  my  first 
night  as  a  Soldier  of  the  Legion  was  one  of  dis- 
illusionment. 


CHAPTER  III 

BACK    IN    SCHOOL 

ON  Monday,  the  twenty-eighth  day  of  June,  I 
awoke  —  no,  I  was  awakened  —  to  a  realization 
that  it  was  still  pitchy  black  out-of-doors.  My 
night  had  been  a  restless  one,  sleep  having  visited 
me  only  at  intervals  between  attacks  from  above 
and  beneath,  for  the  bunk  house  was  full  of  flies, 
and  the  mattress  filled  with  many  creeping  things 
of  different  species  whose  names  are  not  mentioned 
in  polite  society.  To  anticipate,  I  may  say  that, 
before  long,  I  became  an  acknowledged  expert  in 
diagnosing  bites  made  by  them,  and  "  Show  it  to 
Wellman,"  was  often  heard  when  some  one  dis- 
covered a  peculiar  looking  wound.  Also  that  I 
could  come  pretty  near  guessing  the  length  of  the 
rat  who  had  strolled,  with  clammy  feet,  across  my 
face  during  the  night. 

36 


Back  in  School  37 

I  sat  up  in  the  dim  light,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  saw 
a  couple  of  dozen  other  fellows  doing  the  same. 
Only  one  of  them,  Putnam,  was  known  to  me;  but 
I  was  soon  to  know  all  the  rest  nearly  as  intimately, 
for  a  small  bunk  house,  the  same  tasks,  "  eats," 
pleasures  and  discomforts,  make  for  close  fellow- 
ship. 

We  were  all  Americans  there,  although  within  the 
school  were  hundreds  of  Frenchmen,  not  to  men- 
tion Russians,  Italians  and  Portuguese ;  we  were  all 
in  the  service  of  France;  we  were  all  bound  to- 
gether by  mutual  aims  and  mutual  interests ;  we  were 
all  on  one  plane  of  democratic  equality  —  but  what 
a  variety  we  would  have  represented  if  suddenly 
transplanted  back  into  civilian  life!  The  old 
rhyme  of  "  Doctor,  lawyer,  beggarman,  thief," 
would  have  fallen  far  short  of  describing  us  ade- 
quately. 

In  that  one  barrack  was  everything  from  mil- 
lionaires to  prize  fighters.  The  last-mentioned  class 
was  represented  by  a  man  whom  I  shall  not  name, 
because,  at  last  reports,  he  was  viewing  the  walls 


38  Go,  Get  'Em! 


of  a  military  prison  from  the  wrong  side;  but  he 
was  certainly  an  expert  in  his  ex-profession,  and 
although  I  considered  myself  a  pretty  fair  boxer, 
he  laid  me  cold  more  than  once,  in  rainy  day 
bouts. 

This  is,  perhaps,  as  good  a  place  as  any  to  intro- 
duce to  you  some  of  those  companions  of  mine  with 
whom  I  lived,  flew  and  finally  fought,  although 
they  were  not  all  represented  that  morning.  Some 
were  quartered  in  other  barracks,  some  came  to  the 
school  later. 

Foremost  among  them,  as  far  as  general  public 
interest  is  concerned,  was  Jules  Baylies  of  New  Bed- 
ford, America's  greatest  ace  at  the  time  of  his 
death  or  capture,  early  last  June.  The  reason  for 
his  subsequent  successes  was  obvious  during  his 
Avord  training,  for,  even  as  a  young  pilote,  he  kept 
our  hair  on  end  by  performing  the  wildest  possible 
stunts  in  the  air,  with  the  nonchalance  of  a  born 
aviator.  The  war  was  no  new  thing  to  him,  for 
he  had,  prior  to  shifting  over  into  aviation,  driven 
an  ambulance  all  over  the  western  front,  and  earned 


Back  in  School  39 

the  "  Croix  de  Guerre  "  for  conspicuous  bravery  in 
that  service. 

Tall,  brawny,  dark-haired  and  good-looking,  he 
was  a  typical  Yankee  athlete-soldier,  and  his  record 
in  the  school  earned  him  the  distinguished  honor  of 
being  assigned  to  the  "  Stork  "  Escadrille  of  the 
French  service,  a  member  of  which,  the  immortal 
Guynemer,  was  killed  after  strafing  fifty-two  Hun 
planes.  That  Escadrille  always  flew  in  the  most 
active  sector. 

Most  popular  of  all  was  Reginald  Sinclair,  whom 
I  have  already  described,  together  with  the  reason 
for  his  popularity.  We  trained  together  from  start 
to  finish  and  went  to  the  front  at  the  same  time,  his 
station  being  the  Escadrille  located  just  to  the  left 
of  mine.  At  the  time  of  this  writing  Sinclair  has 
got  only  two  official  planes;  but  he  is  still  in  the 
game,  and  with  luck,  is  due  to  boost  his  score  ma- 
terially, for  he  is  an  excellent  pilote.  As  an  illus- 
tration of  the  "  luck  "  of  this  game,  take  the  case  of 
Major  Thaw,  the  most  wonderful  flyer  with  the 
Lafayette  Escadrille,  and  one  of  our  biggest  aces, 


40  Go,  Get  'Em! 

yet  he  did  his  work  perfectly  for  almost  three  years, 
and  had  only  one  Boche  to  his  credit,  before  his  big 
"  run  "  started. 

The  man  who,  perhaps,  typified  the  general  spirit 
of  the  school  more  than  any  other  was  Austin  B. 
Crehore,  of  New  York,  who  was  with  me  through- 
out the  training  at  Avord,  Pau  and  at  Plessis  Belle- 
ville later.  He  was  far  from  robust  physically, 
and  all  the  time  was  suffering  intermittently  from 
chronic  appendicitis.  Again  and  again  one  of  the 
other  men  and  I  had  to  help  him  home  to  the  bar- 
racks from  the  flying  field,  half  carrying  him;  un- 
dress him  and  put  him  to  bed,  he  was  suffering  so. 
But  he  stuck  like  a  bulldog,  reached  the  front  and, 
during  each  of  his  first  three  weeks  of  fighting, 
brought  down  a  Boche.  Then,  and  not  until  then, 
did  he  feel  that  he  had  earned  a  rest,  and  he  went 
to  the  hospital  and  had  his  troublesome  appendix 
out. 

Another  highly  popular  chap  was  Tom  Potter  of 
New  York,  who  had  driven  an  ambulance  on  the 
French,  Italian  and  Serbian  fronts  before  changing 


Photograph  by  Bachrach 

LIEUTENANT    DAVID    E.    PUTNAM 


Back  in  School  41 

over.  He  was  a  wonderful  pianist,  and,  since  he 
had  a  "  box  "  in  his  room,  it  was  a  popular  meeting 
place. 

Dave  Putnam  after  his  "  graduation  "  was  sent 
to  the  Champaigne  sector,  and  I  met  him  only  occa- 
sionally on  leaves,  but  he  was  another  splendid 
pilote  and  quickly  started  in  to  make  a  big  name  in 
the  game.1 

Those  of  you  who  are  especially  interested  in 
bicycling  have  doubtless  read  the  name  of  "  Egg," 
the  great  French  racer.  We  had  an  "  Egg,"  too  — 
or  rather  an  "  Egg  "  Drew.  His  given  name  was 
"  Sidney,  Jr.,"  and  he  was  the  son  of  the  ever 
popular  stage  and  motion  picture  actor.  The  title 
was  bestowed  upon  him  in  derision  after  he  had 

1  Early  in  May  Sergeant  Wellman's  friend,  David  E.  Put- 
nam, downed  his  fifth  Boche,  which  made  him  an  "  Ace," 
and  on  the  same  day  a  sixth,  for  which  achievements  the 
French  government  bestowed  upon  him  the  "  Medaille  Mili- 
tare,"  he  having  already  won  the  "  Croix  de  Guerre."  Sub- 
sequently he  accounted  for  two  more,  and  early  in  June, 
after  having  been  transferred  to  the  American  service  with 
the  rank  of  first  lieutenant,  he  gained  the  remarkable  dis- 
tinction of  bringing  down  five  enemy's  machines  in  one  day. 
This  raised  his  official  record  to  thirteen,  and  made  him  the 
American  "Ace  of  Aces."— THE  EDITOR. 


42  Go,  Get  'Em! 


purchased  no  less  than  three  bicycles,,  not  one  of 
which  would  work.  After  a  splendid  record  at 
the  front  poor  Drew  was  shot  down  and  killed  in 
the  Spring  of  this  year. 

Among  the  others  were  Blumenthal,  the  famous 
Princeton  center  and  guard  —  news  of  whose  shoot- 
ing down  are  in  the  papers  as  I  am  writing  this; 
Mosely,  the  Yale  end;  David  Judd,  of  Brookline, 
Massachusetts;  Ollie  Chadwick,  the  Harvard  foot- 
ball star;  Wally  Winter,  of  Chicago;  Tom  Buffum, 
Don  Stone  and  Louhran,  Taylor  and  Benny  who 
have  made  the  final  great  sacrifice.  All  these  names, 
and  those  of  others  who  will  be  mentioned  in  this 
brief  history,  have  appeared  often  in  print  the  past 
year  and  I  will  not  stop  to  describe  them. 

But  one  other  must  be  mentioned  at  this  time,  for 
he  was  to  become  my  closest  and  most  trusted  com- 
rade through  fair  weather  and  foul  for  several 
months,  until,  shot  down  in  combat  with  five  Hun 
machines,  wounded  and  taken  prisoner,  his  flying 
days  ended,  for  a  time  at  least. 

This  was  "  Tommy  "  Hitchcock,  the  seventeen- 


Back  in  School  43 

year-old  son  of  Major  Thomas  H.  Hitchcock,  of 
Westbury,  L.  L,  and  the  Mineola  Aviation  School, 
who  was  before  the  war  a  famous  polo  player. 

Tom  was  the  baby  of  the  school  in  years,  but  in 
all  things  else  he  reached  the  measure  of  a  'man. 
Although  he  was  so  young  he  was  splendidly  built, 
with  the  muscles  of  a  trained  athlete,  and  such, 
indeed,  he  was,  having  made  his  mark  on  the  polo 
field,  tennis  court  and  other  places  where  sports 
are  held,  when  he  was  in  short  trousers.  He  was 
a  blond,  good  looking  and  good  company,  and 
"  clean  " —  mentally,  morally  and  physically. 

Tom  arrived  at  Avord  a  month  after  I  did,  we 
"  chummed  up  "  immediately  and,  although  I  had 
a  head  start  in  training,  I  reached  the  front  only 
a  little  in  advance  of  him;  in  fact,  he  established 
a  speed  record  for  Americans  in  going  through  the 
course. 

So  much  for  a  brief  caste  of  the  principal  char- 
acters, who  were  to  play  out  the  daily  drama  and 
comedy  of  school  life  in  our  barracks.  Now  to  re- 
turn to  the  story. 


44  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Before  my  bunk  stood  "  Jimmie,"  and  Jimmie 
was  quite  the  queerest  looking  biped  I  had  ever 
laid  eyes  upon  —  a  sort  of  cross  between  an  Indo 
and  a  Chinaman,  with  a  little  dash  of  characteristic 
unlike  either,  in  short,  an  Annamede  from  the 
French  oriental  province  of  Annam.  He  spoke 
neither  French  nor  English,  and  the  only  language 
that  was  mutually  understandable  was  the  profane. 
At  this  he  was  highly  proficient,  and  I  found  that 
almost  nightly  he  received  a  lesson,  for  he  would 
stand  grinning  in  the  center  of  the  floor  and  repeat, 
parrotlike,  the  bad  words  shouted  at  him  by  those  he 
served. 

Jimmie  bore  a  large  wooden  bucket  of  inky  ap- 
pearing liquid  which  masqueraded  under  the  name 
of  coffee.  Heaven  knows  what  was  in  it,  but  when 
I  tasted  it  I  found  that  it  was  strong  enough  to 
have  waked  the  dead.  And  bitter!  We  used  to 
sit  on  the  edge  of  our  beds  and  hang  onto  the  side 
of  them  while  we  gulped  it  down.  Still,  it  was  a 
wonderful  eye-opener. 

Following  the  example  of  my  new  companions, 


Back  in  School  45 

I  made  haste  into  my  clothes,  which  were  still  those 
of  a  civilian,  for  the  hour  was  getting  late  (it  was 
almost  three-thirty!)  and  sunrise  ought  to  find  us 
on  the  field.  The  hours  of  early  morning  and  those 
of  eveningtide  are  the  best  for  flying,  especially  in 
the  summer,  for  there  is  then  likely  to  be  less  wind, 
and  less  of  the  fluky  air  conditions  which  the  heat 
of  noonday  produces. 

As  bad  as  the  bed  had  been,  I  looked  a  bit  long- 
ingly at  the  blankets  which  I  had  just  quitted,  for 
I  found  that  I  was  still  lame  and  tired. 

"  Hurry  up,"  some  one  shouted.  "  We've  got  to 
be  on  the  march  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  you'd 
better  dress  warmly.  It  will  be  pretty  chilly  for 
a  few  hours,  although  hotter  than  Hades  by 


noon." 


"  Breakfast  ...   ?  "  I  began. 

There  was  a  general  laugh.  "  Breakfast !  What 
kind  of  a  Frenchman  are  you?  Come  on,  no  time 
to  shave."  (A  little  later  all  the  Americans,  on  a 
bet,  went  without  shaving  for  two  months,  and  we 
were  a  wild  looking  bunch.) 


46  Go,  Get  'Em! 


I  followed  the  rest  out  into  the  half  light  and  felt 
the  ghostly  touch  of  the  night  mists  on  my  face. 
We  formed  a  semi-military  line  and  marched  out  to 
the  first  field,  twenty  minutes'  distant.  The  sky 
brightened  momentarily,  first  a  mere  tawny  rift 
appearing  in  the  mist,  then  a  yellow  tinge  spread 
over  everything  and  the  fog  disappeared  to  give 
place  to  the  glowing  colors  of  dawn. 

We  approached  the  hangars  of  the  Bleriot 
school.  These,  as  you  may  know,  are  like  immense, 
oblong  circus  tents  with  curved  roofs,  made  of 
canvas  stretched  over  a  wooden  framework,  their 
sides  ten  or  a  dozen  feet  high,  backs  enclosed,  and 
fronts  covered  with  canvas  flaps.  Already  moni- 
tors (instructors)  were  arriving,  and  the  mechanics 
were  busy  pulling  the  flaps  back  and  wheeling  out 
the  machines,  immense  darning  needles.  Some  of 
the  men  climbed  into  theirs  on  orders  from  the  head 
instructor,  and  began  to  test  their  motors  and  the 
air  was  torn  to  shreds  by  the  deafening  banging  and 
clattering,  above  the  incessant  racket  of  which  I 
could  scarcely  hear  myself  think.  It  quieted  down 


Back  in  School  47 

at  last  and  up  came  running  a  dapper  little  French- 
man who  I  learned  was  De  Runge.  As  he  arrived 
he  called  out,  in  English,  "  Good  morning,  Ameri- 
can bums."  (Some  one  had  told  him  that  this  was 
a  polite  greeting,  and  he  believed  it!) 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  instantly  stilled  when 
he  began  to  call  out  briskly,  in  French,  "  Putnam, 
take  machine  number  thirty-five/'  and  so  on,  until 
all  but  I  were  placed. 

At  another  command  the  mechanics  spun  the  sev- 
eral propellers,  and  the  racket  began  again.  The 
assistants  pulled  away  the  blocks  from  beneath  the 
pair  of  small  wheels  on  each  machine,  and  soon  the 
rosy  eastern  sky  was  filled  with  high  darting  black 
specks  —  the  more  advanced  birdmen ;  the  nearer 
air  with  the  fledglings;  while  the  ground  bore  still 
more,  taxi-ing  about  and  looking  like  fish  out  of 
water. 

Everywhere  were  monitors,  pupil  aviators  of  va- 
rious classes,  mechanics  and  laborers,  all  as  busy 
as  bees  and  with  no  time  to  pay  any  attention  to 
a  new-comer. 


48  Go,  Get  'Em! 


I  tried  to  eat  a  piece  of  the  dark,  heavy  and  bitter 
war  bread  and  soft,  wormy  cheese  that  was  laid  out 
in  a  camion  near  the  hangars,  but  found  no  appe- 
tite for  it,  and  then  stood  around  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, watching  the  animated  scene  with  a  good 
deal  of  the  eagerness  of  a  small  boy  on  a  back  lot, 
who  wants  to  be  invited  to  join  a  game  of  "  scrub  " ; 
for,  as  one  machine  after  another  taxi-ed  past  me 
with  a  clatter  and  whirr,  and  then  slid  smoothly 
into  the  air,  my  blood  started  pounding  with  the 
mad  joy  of  anticipation. 

At  length  I  asked  some  one  to  direct  me  to  the 
commanding  officer,  and  he  pointed  out  a  small, 
thick-set  and  nattily  dressed  officer,  who  stood 
watching  the  field  with  snapping  black  eyes,  mean- 
while curling  a  little  pointed  black  mustache.  It 
was  Capitaine  Terrio,  in  charge  of  the  first  three 
classes. 

I  approached  him,  performed  what  was  my  con- 
ception of  a  military  salute,  and  reported  that  I  was 
one  of  his  new  pupils. 

If  I  had  cherished  any  idea  that  he  would  be  so 


Back  in  School  49 

glad  to  get  me  that  he  would  welcome  me  with  open 
arms  and  kiss  me  French  style,  it  was  quickly  dis- 
sipated, for  all  that  he  did  was  to  snap  out  in  a 
businesslike  manner,  "  What's  your  name  ?  " 

I  told  him,  and  he  continued,  "  Very  good.  Re- 
port immediately  to  Sergeant  Parrisoy,  of  the  first 
class." 

With  another  salute  I  turned  away,  and  finally 
succeeded  in  locating  the  Sergeant,  only  to  be  told 
that  the  class  was  then  full  and  that  I  would  have 
to  await  my  turn.  I  waited,  wild  with  impatience 
to  be  up  and  doing,  for  four  days;  but  in  the  in- 
terim somewhat  accustomed  myself  to  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  place. 

While  waiting  for  my  turn  to  come,  and  then 
proceeding  with  the  chronological  sequence  of 
events,  I  will  briefly  describe  the  salient  features  of 
my  life  during  the  months  which  were  to  follow,  so 
that  you  may  have  the  complete  setting. 

Here,  then,  are  two  samples,  taken  from  the  stock 
of  summer  days  —  one  blue  and  one  gray. 

I  have  already  pictured  the  start  of  a  day  and  in 


50  Go,  Get  'Em! 


this  respect  they  were  all  alike.  In  the  early  sum- 
mer it  was  a  case  of  getting  up  before  three,  for,  if 
the  weather  were  fair,  we  were  supposed  to  be  in 
our  planes  —  either  on  the  ground  or  in  the  air  — 
from  sunrise  until  nine  o'clock,  at  which  hour  we 
returned  to  the  barracks. 

Then  we  had  the  time  to  ourselves  until  about 
five  in  the  afternoon,  and  before  dinner,  which  was 
served  at  one  o'clock,  we  would  loaf  or  lie  on  our 
beds  and  essay  the  impossible  —  i.e.,  to  get  to  sleep, 
for  the  days  were  often  hotter  than  the  devil's 
kitchen.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  time  was  more 
often  spent  in  a  never-ending  battle  against  flies, 
big  and  little,  and  bugs,  little  and  big,  and  at  one 
time  or  another  during  the  day  you  might  have 
seen  a  row  of  us,  stripped  to  the  waist  and  indus- 
triously picking  them  from  our  undershirts,  or 
burning  them  out  of  the  seams  with  automatic  cigar 
lighters.  A  jackknife  blade  run  down  a  crack  any- 
where in  the  bunkhouse  would  do  wholesale  mur- 
der. 

By  dinner  time  I  was  always  ravenously  hungry, 


Back  in  School  51 

but  my  appetite  often  went  back  on  me  when  the 
food  was  set  out  on  the  rough  board  table  in  the 
building,  three  minutes'  walk  distant,  which  served 
as  a  dining  -hall.  Almost  invariably  it  was  horse 
meat,  tough  and  gamey,  lentils  which  contained 
many  little  pebbles  so  completely  camouflaged  that 
I  found  it  easier  to  swallow  them  than  to  search 
them  out,  real  war  bread,  and  coffee. 

If  I  did  not  wholly  relish  the  rations,  the  flies  did, 
and  always  favored  us  with  their  company  in 
swarms. 

The  afternoon  was  a  duplication  of  the  morning, 
with,  perhaps,  the  interpolation  of  a  game  of  cards, 
dice  or  baseball,  for  early  in  July  one  of  our  officers, 
who  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  the  great  Ameri- 
can national  pastime,  and  never  seen  it  played,  sug- 
gested that  we  make  up  two  teams  and  give  an 
exhibition. 

There  were  several  excellent  players  in  the  camp 
—  old  college  and  school  stars  —  but  not  enough 
to  make  two  evenly  balanced  teams.  Nevertheless 
we  succeeded  in  putting  up  a  pretty  fast  brand  of 


52  Go,  Get  'Em! 


ball,  and  the  Frenchmen  immediately  went  wild 
over  it  and  came  in  crowds  to  every  game.  We 
played  three  times  a  week. 

The  honor  of  captaining  one  of  the  nines  was 
thrust  upon  me,  and  my  team  managed  to  pull  off 
the  greater  number  of  victories  during  the  se- 
ries. 

At  five  o'clock  we  were  back  at  the  piste,  or  flying 
field,  and  ready  to  continue  the  afternoon  session 
until  it  was  too  dark  to  see,  which  might  mean  as 
late  as  nine-thirty. 

Supper,  a  second  edition  of  dinner,  followed,  and 
then,  until  bed  time,  which,  tired  as  we  were,  was 
generally  postponed  like  most  unpleasant  things, 
we  amused  ourselves  with  games,  or  by  watching 
the  Annamedes  and  half -naked  black  Arabian 
zouaves  perform  their  native  dances  about  camp 
fires  in  their  quarters,  to  the  unsymphonic  accom- 
paniment of  weird  crooning  and  the  thumping  of 
tomtoms.  The  dances  were  as  sinuous  and  sensuous 
as  any  Hawaiian  hula-hula,  and,  with  the  ruddy  fire- 
light reflected  on  the  dusky  and  ebony  bodies,  the 


Back  in  School  53 

effect  was  outlandish  in  the  extreme.  Moreover, 
they  used  an  intoxicating  native  drug,  and  the  dance 
often  ended  in  a  fight. 

This,  except  for  the  interpolation  of  special  in- 
cidents, is  an  accurate,  but  sketchy,  pen  picture  of 
our  every-day  existence,  when  the  weather  was  fit 
for  flying. 

Rain,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  it,  or  impossible  fly- 
ing conditions  brought  an  intermixture  of  feelings. 
It  gave  us  a  vacation  which  we  generally  needed, 
but  it  also  retarded  our  progress,  and,  as  we  were 
all  eager  to  get  to  the  front  and  actually  into  the 
fight,  every  delay  was  maddening. 

On  such  days  we  would  have  roll-call  in  the 
early  morning,  and  then  be  dismissed,  to  spend  the 
time  according  to  our  own  sweet  will. 

Most  fortunately  for  us  we  had  what  we  called 
our  "  clubhouse."  It  was  a  little  stone  farmhouse 
not  far  from  the  field,  which  a  motherly  little 
French  woman  of  the  peasant  type,  slender,  bent 
and  weatherbeaten,  had  taken  early  in  the  summer, 
and  ran  with  the  aid  of  two  sisters.  What  her  real 


54  Go,  Get  'Em! 


name  was  I  never  knew ;  but  we  called  her  "  Old 
Mammy,"  and  a  mammy  she  was  to  us  all. 

Old  Mammy  kept  her  own  cow  and  chickens  and 
provided  us  with  real  "  home  "  cooking, —  of  the 
French  kind,  of  course. 

This  establishment  was  truly  a  God-send  to  us 
Americans,  and  we  would  troop  thither  at  every 
opportunity  to  spend  on  decent  food,  the  "  pin 
money  "  thoughtfully  supplied  by  Mr.  Vanderbilt. 
We  had  the  run  of  the  place,  and  in  the  low  ceil- 
inged,  tile-floored  room  which  served  as  a  combina- 
tion living-  and  dining-room,  we  had  a  tin-pany 
piano,  and  sang,  smoked,  played  cards,  threw  dice 
and  boxed  as  the  spirit  moved. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  we  frequented  such  a  truly 
delightful  place  as  often  as  possible,  especially  when 
we  could  there  purchase  for  two  francs-fifty  (fifty 
cents)  real  breakfasts  of  a  couple  of  eggs,  toast 
with  butter  and  fresh  milk,  and  other  meals  far 
better  than  the  French  government  was  able  to  sup- 
ply us  with?  And  is  it  any  wonder  that  I  was 
perpetually  broke? 


CHAPTER  IV 

FLYING  I      ON  THE  GROUND  AND  IN  THE  AIR 

ON  the  first  day  of  July  I  received  my  initiation 
into  the  intricacies  of  flying.  It  was,  however,  like 
a  person  learning  to  swim  on  dry  land,  or  the  case 
of  a  baby  who  has  to  learn  to  crawl  before  he  can 
walk. 

At  that  time  the  French  were  training  their  avia- 
tors by  the  "  rule  of  thumb."  We  had  no  prelimi- 
nary schooling  in  the  theories  of  aeronautics,  study 
of  the  construction  of  the  planes,  preliminary  flights 
with  a  teacher  or  military  drill,  as  in  America. 
They  tried  a  drill  one  day,  but  it  was  not  a  howling 
success  and  was  never  repeated. 

"There's  your  plane;  if  you  do  so  and  so,  such 
and  such  a  thing  will  happen ;  get  into  it  and  go  to 
it." 

That  is  a  brief  summary  of  the  method  of  in- 
55 


56  Go,  Get  'Em! 

struction  then  pursued  at  Avord,  although  I  under- 
stand that  it  has  since  been  somewhat  changed.  It 
was  a  modern  version  of  the  old  Spartan  "  survival 
of  the  fittest "  manner  of  raising  children ;  but  it 
turned  out  real  flyers. 

Not,  of  course,  that  we  "  went  aloft "  the  first 
day,  or  for  many  days,  the  ground  class  being  the 
longest  and  most  tedious  of  all. 

I  was  introduced  to  my  first  machine,  and  when 
I  climbed  aboard  I  felt  as  proud  as  a  boy  with  a 
new  bicycle,  for,  although  it  was  merely  a  sadly 
battered  old  Bleriot,  it  represented  to  me  the  first 
step  toward  a  much  desired  end.  Of  course,  being 
a  Bleriot,  it  was  a  one-seated  monoplane  —  that 
is,  it  had  single  wings,  and  their  normal  spread  had 
been  reduced  to  twelve  meters  (thirty-six  feet  ap- 
proximately) by  clipping.  It  would  not  leave  the 
ground,  and  accordingly  the  nickname  applied  to 
this  type  of  machine  —  a  "  Penguin  " — is  obviously 
appropriate. 

Since  it  is  my  desire  to  write  this  chapter  rather 
for  the  reader  who  is  wholly  unversed  in  the  theories 


Flying       57 

of  flying  than  for  you  who  understand  at  least  its 
rudiments,  I  will  give  a  few  simple  explanations 
here. 

The  monoplane  machines  of  the  types  that  I  flew, 
were  all  very  lightly  constructed  of  slender  pieces 
of  spruce,  covered  with  canvas,  and  that  is  the  usual 
construction,  although  some  of  the  big  three-place 
planes  —  like  the  one  that  killed  Luffberry  —  are 
lightly  armored.  The  long,  tapering  body  is  called 
the  fuselage.  At  the  front,  just  below  the  wings, 
is  the  cockpit  and  seat  for  the  pilot,  and,  in  front 
of  him,  is  the  engine,  whose  two-bladed,  wooden 
propeller  draws  the  machine  through  the  air,  ex- 
cept in  the  heavy  Voison  plane,  in  which  the 
engine  is  behind  the  operator,  and  the  propeller 
pushes  it  forward,  as  does  the  screw  of  a  steam- 
ship. At  the  back  of  the  fuselage  are  two  rudders 
which  work  independently,  one  vertical,  and  the 
other  horizontal  and  each  divided  into  two  parts. 
The  latter  are  called  the  rear  ailerons,  or  elevators, 
and  are  connected  by  wires  to  the  manche  a  balai, 
or  control  stick,  which  comes  up  between  the  pilot's 


58  Go,  Get  'Em! 


extended  legs.  When  this  is  pulled  backward,  the 
rear  ailerons  are  elevated  and  cause  the  nose  of  the 
machine  to  point  upward,  and  when  it  is  drawn 
back  the  opposite  results.  Other  wires  connect  the 
control  stick  to  the  ends  of  the  wings.  In  the 
Bleriot  and  Caudron  types  the  wings  are  warped, 
and  in  most  others  the  wires  operate  hinged  flaps 
called  the  side  ailerons.  When  the  control  stick 
is  moved  sideways  to  the  right,  the  aileron  on  the 
left  hand  wing  is  lifted,  and  that  on  the  right  hand 
one  dropped,  which  causes  the  machine  to  tilt  down- 
ward on  the  right  hand  side,  and  of  course  the 
opposite  result  is  obtained  by  moving  the  stick  to 
the  left.  The  vertical  rudder,  which  steers  the 
plane's  course  exactly  after  the  manner  of  a  boat, 
is  worked  by  a  very  simple  device  like  that  on  a 
double  runner  sled,  a  narrow  piece  of  wood  oper- 
ated by  the  pilot's  feet.  So  much  for  a  very  simple 
description  of  an  airplane. 

Of  course  I  had  no  need  to  worry  about  any  of 
the  controls  but  the  last  mentioned,  during  my 
training  in  the  first  class,  the  purpose  of  which  was 


Flying 59 

merely  to  teach  the  pupil  how  to  control  his  engine, 
—  in  my  case  a  thirty-five  horse  power,  stationary 
three-cylinder  Anzani  radial  motor  —  and  steer  a 
straight  course,  with  the  fuselage  horizontal,  for 
half  a  mile  down  the  field. 

This  running  the  plane  straight  across  the  field 
sounds  simple,  doesn't  it  ?  Well,  it  is  not  —  for 
the  beginner,  at  least, —  and  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
customary  length  of  time  spent  in  learning  to  do 
this  one  thing  properly,  at  Avord,  was  a  full  month. 
Some  took  a  longer  and  some  a  shorter  period,  and 
the  same  is  true  of  all  the  subsequent  "  stunts,"  so 
it  is  obvious  that  "  classes  "  had  no  fixed  graduation 
day. 

Sergeant  Parrisoy  told  me  briefly  what  my  stunt 
was  to  be,  and  how  to  perform  it  —  one  of  the  other 
fellows  interpreting,  for  it  was  many  weeks  before 
I  knew  enough  French  to  get  along  without  friendly 
assistance  from  a  go-between.  I  got  set  confidently. 
A  mechanic  was  called  to  give  my  propeller  a  twirl, 
which  was  the  method  of  cranking  the  engine,  I 
gave  her  the  gas  and  the  spark,  and  was  off. 


60  Go,  Get  'Em! 


If  you  have  ever  seen  an  intoxicated  man  stagger 
waveringly  down  the  sidewalk,  just  missing  bump- 
ing into  posts  and  people,  you  can  mentally  picture 
my  progress,  for  first  I  pressed  too  much  on  one 
side,  then  on  the  other,  of  my  foot-tiller.  Even- 
tually I  reached  my  destination,  the  other  side  of 
the  long  field;  but,  if  my  course  had  been  charted, 
the  result  would  certainly  not  have  served  as  a 
geometric  diagram  proving  that  the  shortest  dis- 
tance between  two  points  is  a  straight  line. 

I  improved  steadily,  however,  and,  although  the 
daily  task  was  one  highly  conducive  to  the  use  of 
profanity,  for  it  seemed  as  though  I  were  getting 
nowhere  fast,  three  weeks  after  my  maiden  trip 
I  actually  heard  my  teacher  say  the  heart-gladden- 
ing words,  "  Wellman,  to-morrow  you  may  go  into 
the  second  class." 

During  these  three  weeks  two  events  of  particular 
interest  to  me  happened.  First  I  got  my  uniform  — 
a  dark  blue,  close  fitting  tunic  with  open  collar  and 
a  single  row  of  steel  buttons,  bearing  a  winged  pro- 
peller blade,  and  trousers  of  the  same  color,  with 


Flying  6l 

a  hair  line  of  orange  down  the  outer  seams.  That 
day  I  strutted  about  inwardly  prouder  than  any  Gen- 
eral in  the  French  army  with  his  gold  lace  and 
insignia. 

The  other  occurred  when  I  witnessed  the  first 
demonstration  of  the  truth  of  the  axiom  that  luck 
plays  the  leading  part  in  flying. 

One  evening,  early  in  July,  a  number  of  us  were 
standing  around  at  the  piste,  as  the  aviation  field 
was  called,  having  completed  our  day's  work,  and 
were  watching  the  real  flyers  come  in  and  alight, 
one  by  one.  At  last  our  attention  was  attracted  to 
one  machine  flying  low  over  the  little  cluster  of 
buildings  about  the  Avord  depot,  and,  as  we  watched 
it,  we  saw  it  suddenly  swoop  down  and  disappear 
straight  through  the  roof  of  one  of  them. 

Capitaine  Terrio  and  several  others,  among  whom 
I  was  one,  ran  for  a  near-by  automobile,  and  broke 
all  speed  records  over  the  half  mile  of  horribly 
rough  road  that  separated  our  field  from  the  site 
of  the  accident,  which  we  fully  believed  had  re- 
sulted in  a  fatality. 


62  Go,  Get  'Em! 


When  we  arrived,  the  first  thing  which  our  eyes 
fell  upon  was  the  flaming  auburn  hair  of  "  Red  " 
Scanlon,  as  he  stood  at  salute  in  the  doorway  of 
the  bakery  which  he  had  "  just  dropped  into  "  while 
passing. 

Although  he  was  covered  with  mortar  dust  there 
was  scarcely  a  scratch  on  him,  despite  the  fact  that 
his  plane  had  gone  through  the  roof  until  only  its 
rudder  stuck  out,  and  had  been  smashed  to  smith- 
ereens. He  told  us  that  his  motor  had  stopped 
dead,  just  as  he  was  about  to  end  his  flight  home, 
and  that  his  momentum  had  not  been  sufficient  to 
carry  him  clear  of  the  buildings. 

Yes,  nerve,  judgment  and  experience  are  three 
highly  important  factors  in  flying;  but  pure  luck 
tops  them  all. 

Therefore  it  is  hardly  strange  that  aviators  are 
highly  superstitious,  and  that  almost  every  one  car- 
ries some  mascot  on  which  he  pins  his  faith.  At 
just  about  this  time  I  wrote  home  in  haste  for  some- 
thing to  act  as  my  charm,  selecting  a  photograph  of 
my  mother  and  one  of  "  the  girl  I  left  behind  me  "  in 


Flying 63 

a  leather  folder,  and  I  carried  this  close  to  my  heart 
throughout  my  whole  career  in  France,  with  what 
effect  you  shall  hear  later. 

Promotion  to  the  second  class  sounded  like  a  real 
step  forward;  but  it  really  meant  ten  days  more  of 
the  same  sort  of  terrestrial  trips,  this  time  in  a 
Bleriot  of  the  Rolleur  type,  with  full  sized  wings, 
but  with  its  six-cylinder  motor  throttled  down  to 
half  speed,  so  that  the  machine  could  not  leave  the 
earth  for  its  real  habitat  in  the  air. 

Unlike  the  "Penguin"  which  bumped  over  the 
ground  like  a  light  weight  automobile,  this  machine 
had  a  buoyancy  that  caused  it  to  skim  along  so  that 
the  sensation  of  the  pilot  was  the  next  thing  to 
actual  flying.  It  also  responded  much  more  easily 
to  the  rudder. 

The  feeling  engendered  in  me  was  indescribably 
odd  as  I  went  whizzing  along,  barely  touching  the 
ground.  It  was  not  to  be  compared  with  that  which 
was  to  come  later,  hurtling  through  space;  but 
more  like  the  one  which  you  may  have  had  your- 
self, if  you  have  ever  found  yourself  walking  un- 


64  Go,  Get  'Em! 


concernedly  in  the  air  in  your  dreams.  It  gripped 
me  so  that  I  left  my  machine  with  regret  at  night 
and  eagerly  anticipated  the  next  "  go  "  at  it. 

Again,  this  period  brought  one  occurrence  which 
is  still  strongly  outstanding  in  my  memory.  I  had 
seen  death  before,  but  never  one  of  violence.  It 
happened  one  evening, —  a  peaceful,  quiet  twilight 
night  which  made  the  thought  of  tragedy  remote. 
Most  of  the  machines  were  safe  on  land,  but  two 
Voison  planes  —  big  two-seated  affairs  in  which 
a  quartette  of  French  students  were  learning  the 
gentle  art  of  bombing  —  were  still  on  high.  Just 
what  happened  to  one  of  them  we  never  knew;  but, 
when  both  were  over  the  field,  it  apparently  went  out 
of  control,  and  rammed  the  other  at  full  speed. 
There  was  a  crash,  as  they  collided  in  midair,  their 
wings  crumpled  up  as  though  made  of  pasteboard, 
and  down  they  fell,  tumbling  over  and  over  in  a 
mass  of  flames,  for  the  gasoline  tank  of  each  must 
have  been  smashed,  and  the  essence  immediately 
ignited. 

We  ran  for  the  spot  where  they  landed,  but  too 


Flying 65 

late  to  accomplish  anything.  All  four  men,  and 
both  machines,  had  been  burned  to  a  cinder. 

Once  more  I  passed  a  troubled  night.  A  fellow 
cannot  help  but  wonder,  after  witnessing  such  a 
tragedy,  if  he  will  himself  some  day  be  the  victim 
of  a  similar  one,  even  though  he  may  know  that  the 
chances  are  all  in  his  favor,  and  that  fewer  acci- 
dents occur  in  airplanes  than  in  automobiles. 

While  I  was  at  Avord,  the  American  students  were 
extremely  fortunate,  and  not  one  was  killed  and  few 
injured,  although  some  of  other  nationalities  were 
less  lucky. 

Then  came  the  last  of  July,  and  my  promotion  to 
the  class  which  spelled  the  real  thing,  flying  twenty- 
five  feet  off  the  ground. 

A  child  on  Christmas  eve,  with  his  mind  full  of 
what  Santa  Claus  is  going  to  bring  him  on  the 
morrow,  might  serve  as  an  example  of  me  the 
night  after  I  received  word  of  my  promotion  into 
the  air,  and  I  tried  my  best  to  form  some  mental 
impression  of  the  sensation  that  I  was  to  experience 
when  I,  too,  became  one  of  the  birdmen  who  sailed 


66  Go,  Get  'Em! 


off  the  ground  so  gracefully,  sported  around  in  the 
ether  with  perfect  ease,  and  then  softly  slid  to  earth 
down  an  invisible  slope. 

The  field  where  the  third  class  held  forth  was 
much  further  from  the  barracks,  it  taking  nearly 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  reach  in  a  tractor  truck, 
or  camion. 

When  the  morning  was  about  to  dawn  I  heard 
one  of  my  companions  call,  "  Hurry  all  everybody, 
the  camion  leaves  in  fifteen  minutes  and  if  you  miss 
it,  it's  a  case  of  a  long,  long  trail  on  foot  to  the 
field."  With  eager  anticipation  I  hurried  into  my 
clothes,  and  outside.  The  camion  was  waiting,  and 
Annamedes  were  piling  big  loaves  of  the  poilu  war 
bread  and  round  boxes  of  the  soft,  evil-smelling 
cheese  under  one  of  its  seats. 

There  was  a  general  scramble  for  seats,  and  some 
of  the  other  fellows  immediately  fell  into  an  audible 
final  snooze,  while  others  "  snitched  "  a  bit  of  bread 
and  cheese.  It  looked  uninviting  and  nauseating 
at  that  hour,  but  by  this  time  I  had  conquered  my 
squeamishness  and  joined  the  latter  group. 


Flying  67 

It  was  some  time  before  our  conveyance  actually 
got  under  way;  but  we  were  off  at  length,  moving 
slowly  past  the  low,  dingy  barracks,  while  the  faint 
morning  breeze,  blowing  over  them,  bore  evidence  to 
the  fact  that  the  sanitation  there  was  of  the  most 
primitive  order.  Through  the  gray  dawn  and  over 
a  roadway,  in  which  the  ruts  outnumbered  the 
smooth  spots,  we  jolted  away ;  but  it  was  better  than 
walking.  There  was  a  little  low  laughter  and  jest- 
ing, but  not  a  murmur  of  complaint  —  it  was  all 
part  of  the  game.  "  Cest  la  guerre,"  as  the  French 
would  have  put  it. 

Arriving,  I  went  to  my  machine  —  a  real  air- 
plane at  last  —  as  soon  as  it  was  assigned  to  me, 
and,  with  impatient  eagerness  to  be  off,  listened 
while  the  monitor  carefully  showed  me  how  the 
control  stick  worked, —  I  knew  all  about  it  already 
from  watching  and  talking  with  others,  I  thought. 

I  listened  impatiently  while  he  gave  me  my 
final  instructions  about  getting  off  the  ground  and 
landing,  for  my  first  trip,  in  fact  all  my  flying  in 
this  third  class,  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  practice 


68  Go,  Get  'Em! 

of  these  two  things,  and  keeping  a  straight  line  in 
the  air. 

The  usual  preliminaries  of  starting  were  over  at 
length,  and,  with  my  propeller  a  misty  white  circle 
before  me,  I  started  to  taxi  over  the  hubbly  field  in 
order  to  acquire  the  speed  needed  for  the  "  take 
off  " —  some  forty  miles  an  hour.  When  I  was 
certain  that  I  had  momentum  enough, —  I  probably 
had  had  it  seconds  earlier, —  I  clinched  my  teeth, 
gave  a  mental  "  one,  two,  three,  go,"  pulled  back  on 
my  control  stick  —  and  went. 

My  first  sensation  was  one  of  surprise  at  the 
sudden  smoothness  with  which  the  machine  under 
me  was  traveling;  a  mad  ecstasy,  over  the  thought 
that  I  was  actually  flying,  succeeded  it,  and  I  gave 
a  soundless  whoop  of  joy,  and  looked  down  to  see 
how  the  earth  appeared  from  the  magnificent  height 
of  twenty-five  feet,  and  rushing  backward  at  some 
sixty  miles  an  hour. 

Many  of  Jules  Verne's  imaginings  have  more 
than  come  true,  and  I  may  live  some  day  to  fly 
twenty-five  miles  above  the  ground,  but  I  solemnly 


Flying  69 

affirm  that  it  will  not  seem  so  high  to  me  as  did 
that  absurdly  low  altitude  of  as  many  feet. 

My  heart  took  a  sudden  jump  upward,  and,  with 
but  one  idea  —  that  of  getting  out  of  the  air  and 
back  to  terra  firma  —  I  pushed  my  control  sharply 
forward  and  headed  toward  the  ground.  I  had, 
only  a  few  minutes  before,  been  told  painstakingly 
just  what  procedure  to  follow  when  making  a 
landing,  how  to  dip  —  or  pique  —  down  until  al- 
most to  the  field,  and  then  redress,  or  pull  on  my 
lever  and  straighten  the  plane  out  parallel  to  the 
ground,  and  so  settle  like  a  bird.  Of  course  I  for- 
got all  about  doing  it,  in  my  delight  at  seeing  my 
machine  draw  near  the  solid  earth  again,  with  the 
result  that  I  crashed  into  the  ground  almost  head 
on,  and,  for  the  first  of  several  times,  felt  the  frail 
wings  and  fuselage  collapse  beneath  me. 

Half  dazed,  but  wholly  happy  to  be  still  alive  and 
still  intact  myself,  I  sat  amid  the  wreckage  until 
others,  including  my  monitor,  came  running  up  to 
extricate  me.  Some  were  grinning  heartlessly. 
He  was  scowling  a  little;  but,  instead  of  giving  me 


70  Go,  Get  'Em! 


the  tongue  lacing  that  I  richly  deserved,  he  merely 
said,  in  a  businesslike  tone  of  voice,  "  Take  ma- 
chine number  three,  Wellman." 

I  had  been  in  the  air  a  little  less  than  two  min- 
utes, and,  on  my  very  first  attempt,  had  proved  the 
truth  of  the  words  spoken  in  jest  —  the  oldest  of 
all  aviation  "  wheezes  " —  that  it  is  not  the  flying, 
but  the  alighting,  that  is  dangerous.  Still,  /  had 
flown,  and,  mixed  with  my  self -disgust  and  anger 
over  having  been  such  an  idiot,  were  the  germs  of 
the  aerial  craze. 

I  went  to  my  second  machine  at  once  and,  in  a 
few  moments,  had  completed  a  second  ride,  this 
time  without  mishap. 

To  a  man  who  has  flown,  free  from  earthly  limi- 
tations, in  the  clean,  cool  air  where  clouds  are  born, 
and  has  had  the  mastery  of  the  three  known  dimen- 
sions, and  a  speed  greater  than  has  even  been 
achieved  on  the  earth,  the  old  familiar  sensations 
and  thrills  seem  mild  and  trivial.  To-day  I  was 
out  in  an  automobile,  and  speeded  it  up  to  sixty 
miles  an '  hour.  We  hit  only  the  high  spots,  but 


Flying  71 

how  crude  this  method  of  conveyance,  during  which 
one  hits  anything  at  all,  seemed  to  me.  I  found 
myself  unconsciously  and  continually  pulling  back 
on  the  wheel,  as  I  would  have  on  my  control  stick, 
to  lift  the  motorcar  into  the  air. 

But  this  is  anticipating. 

Rain  fell  steadily  for  four  days,  from  the  third 
to  the  sixth,  and,  with  no  Fourth  of  July  celebration, 
no  letters  from  home,  nothing  to  do  but  engage  in 
the  indoor  sports,  which  soon  palled,  and  the  dis- 
mal weather,  I  was  quite  as  blue  as  ever  I  had  been 
in  my  life. 

Then,  with  the  return  of  the  sunshine  and  real 
flying,  everything  became  rosy  again.  This  class, 
during  which  I  flew  in  more  or  less  straight  lines 
back  and  forth  across  the  field  at  an  altitude  of  a 
score  of  feet,  extended  over  a  fortnight  more,  and, 
before  it  ended  for  me,  I  was  able  to  alight  in  the 
manner  which  I  had  envied  in  others,  without  the 
jarring  bump  of  a  too  abrupt  dive,  or  the  "pan- 
cake "  thump  of  a  too-flat  drop. 

Thus  the  middle  of  July  brought  my  promotion 


72  Go,  Get  'Em! 

to  a  still  higher  powered  Bleriot,  with  instructions 
to  make  the  tour  de  piste  —  or  flight  around  the  field 
—  in  it,  at  an  altitude  of  five  hundred  metres.  With 
this  came  the  reward  for  all  the  hard  and  irksome 
work  that  had  gone  before,  and,  oh,  the  untram- 
meled  joy  of  skimming  through  the  air,  and  seeing 
the  earth  below  in  its  geometric  figures  of  greens 
and  browns,  and  the  men  looking  like  little  black 
ants. 

This  class  was,  of  course,  intended  to  teach  the 
pupil-pilote  how  to  make  his  turns  in  the  air,  and 
that  is  quite  a  different  thing  from  making  them 
on  the  ground. 

You  know  what  happens  to  an  automobile  that 
tries  to  turn  sharply  on  a  level  stretch  of  road,  while 
going  at  a  high  speed.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  an 
airplane.  A  turn  with  rudder  only  results  in  go- 
ing off  into  a  "  wing-slip,"  which  is  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a  sidewise  fall,  and,  just  in  the  man- 
ner that  the  corners  of  a  race  track  are  banked  to 
tilt  a  racing  machine,  and  counteract  the  tendency 
to  shoot  straight  ahead,  and  so  go  over  when  the 


Flying       73 

turn  is  made,  the  airman  has  to  provide  a  bank  of 
air  for  himself  in  order  to  make  a  turn  in  safety. 

He  does  this  by  tilting  the  plane  down,  in  the 
direction  which  the  turn  is  to  take,  by  means  of  the 
side  ailerons,  or  —  in  the  Bleriot  —  by  warping 
the  wings,  as  I  have  explained  before. 

The  pressure  of  the  air  against  the  plane  which 
is  elevated,  as  the  rudder  swings  the  machine 
around,  forms  the  necessary  "  bank."  It  is  rather 
a  neat  operation  and  requires  good  judgment,  for  a 
too-sudden  turn,  while  flying  at  full  speed,  causes 
such  a  tremendous  atmospheric  pressure  on  the 
lightly  constructed  wing  that  it  is  likely  to  collapse. 

The  doing  of  this,  like  everything  else  in  flying, 
becomes  second  nature  with  practice,  and  demands 
no  more  thought  than  balancing  a  bicycle,  but  the 
beginner  has  to  keep  himself  on  the  qui  vive,  and 
the  nervous  and  physical  strain  that  results  is  de- 
cidedly exhausting  —  at  least  I  found  it  so. 

On  the  morning  of  August  the  second  I  was,  for 
the  first  time,  two  solid  hours  in  the  air,  and,  when 
I  finally  descended,  I  was  almost  "  all  in/'  and 


74  Go,  Get  'Em! 


fairly  trembling  all  over,  not  to  mention  being 
filthy,  for  the  Bleriots  spit  oil  and  grime  frightfully 
and,  after  a  long  trip,  we  often  looked  like  stokers. 

During  all  this  training  in  the  air  the  monitors 
stayed  on  the  ground  and  kept  close  enough  watch 
on  our  doings  to  make  mental  notes  of  our  mis- 
takes and  weaknesses,  but  I  found  them  very  pa- 
tient and  considerate  in  pointing  them  out  and  cor- 
recting them. 

We  Americans  stood  on  a  somewhat  different 
plane  from  the  ordinary  French  soldiers,  for  we 
were  volunteers,  come  to  aid  them  in  their  hour  of 
need,  and  they  appreciated  that  fact.  Moreover, 
the  discipline  in  the  aviation  was  in  nowise  commen- 
surate with  that  in  other  branches  of  the  service; 
but  there  had  to  be  a  certain  amount  of  it,  neverthe- 
less. One  incident,  in  which  it  had  a  part,  occurred 
about  this  time,  and,  although  it  was  not  a  thing 
for  the  performers  to  boast  of,  it  was  amusing 
enough  to  be  recounted. 

Several  of  the  American  "  colony  "  had  kept  their 
natural  exuberance  of  spirits  in  as  long  as  pos- 


Flying 75 

sible,  and  one  evening  went  to  the  "  corners  " —  as 
New  Englanders  might  name  the  cluster  of  stores 
at  the  Avord  depot  —  and  proceeded  to  paint  them 
red.  Next  morning  they  were  all  late  to  classes, 
and  were  promptly  punished  by  imprisonment  in  the 
rude  barrack  jail,  filling  it  to  overflowing.  Their 
term  was  to  be  three  days  in  durance  vile, —  and  vile 
it  was ;  but  that  very  night  the  Annamedes  got  into 
one  of  their  free-for-all  fights  with  knives,  and  the 
Yanks  had  to  be  released  to  make  room  for  the  new 
batch  of  prisoners.  They  were  never  called  upon 
to  finish  their  term. 

Throughout  the  period  of  my  earlier  training  we 
had  heard  persistent  reports  that  Uncle  Sam  was 
about  to  take  over  the  Lafayette  Flying  Corps,  and 
my  letters  home  were  full  of  the  good  news,  for  it 
would  mean  flying  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  a 
thought  which  supplied  an  added  incentive  to  the 
work.  It  did  not  happen  while  I  was  in  the  game, 
and,  although  I  was  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  one 
day  flying  over  Old  Glory,  it  was  to  be  under  the  tri- 
color of  France. 


76  Go,  Get  'Em! 


To  counteract  this  inspiring  report,  came  an 
official  order  that  all  student  pilot es  at  Avord 
should  receive  training  in  the  heavy  two-place 
bombing  Caudron  biplanes  This  spelled  further 
delay  in  getting  into  the  real  action,  and  on  top  of 
that  occurred  several  days  of  rain,  and,  although 
I  knew  that  the  fourth  class,  with  its  more  inter- 
esting acrobatics  was  just  ahead  of  me,  I  had  an- 
other spell  of  the  blues. 

In  looking  back,  the  discomforts  of  my  months 
at  Avord  seem  trivial ;  but,  with  the  heat,  bugs,  flies 
and  especially  bad  weather,  they  seemed  real  enough 
when  going  through  them. 


CHAPTER  V 


AN    "  UPPERCLASSMAN  " 


THE  third  week  in  August  was  devoted  to  the 
tour  de  piste  and  the  simpler  acrobatics  —  an  a 
droit,  a  gauche,  a  serpentine  and  three  spirales  — 
performed  in  a  still  more  powerful  Bleriot,  which 
had  an  eighty  horse-power  rotative  Gnome  motor. 
With  this  class  the  real  "  thrills  "  began.  I  was 
much  too  elated  and  excited  to  be  frightened;  but, 
when  a  beginner  makes  his  first  dives  in  corkscrew 
curves  from  a  height  of  thirty-five  hundred  feet, 
with  the  motor  cut  off  and  nothing  solid  under  him 
except  a  monoplane,  which  is  a  rather  ticklish  craft 
to  manage,  especially  when  the  air  is  rough,  he  is 
pretty  certain  to  get  some  sensations  which  he  never 
had  before. 

The  a  droit  is  simple  —  when  you  know  how! 
It  merely  consists  of  piqueing  down  with  the  motor 

77 


78  Go,  Get  'Em! 


off,  then,  as  you  approach  the  earth,  you  bank 
sharply,  and  make  a  right  hand  turn  and  instantly 
straighten  your  machine  out  either  to  make  a  land- 
ing, or  continue  your  flight.  Of  course  the  a 
gauche  is  a  similar  turn  by  the  left  flank. 

The  serpentine  explains  itself,  and  a  spirale  is 
a  joyslide  to  a  point  directly  below  the  one  from 
which  you  start,  on  an  invisible  spiral  staircase  with 
the  plane  tilted  all  the  time.  It  beats  the  most  ex- 
citing roller  coaster  all  hollow,  and,  since  there  are 
no  rails  to  guide  your  machine,  the  novice  has  to 
keep  his  wits  about  him,  for,  if  he  piques  too 
sharply,  off  he  goes  into  a  spinning  nose  dive. 

After  the  first  attempt,  during  which  my  throat 
felt  a  bit  constricted,  and  my  heart  beat  an  un- 
rhythmical tattoo  against  my  ribs,  I  began  to  enjoy 
those  headlong  rushes  toward  earth,  and  the  sud- 
den straightening  out  of  the  machine,  by  tilting  its 
elevator  up  at  exactly  the  right  moment. 

When  I  had  satisfied  the  monitor  that  I  had 
mastered  this  style  of  air  travel,  I  was  given  two 
days'  leave  before  starting  in  with  the  Caudron. 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  79 

The  school  had  narrowed  down  materially  by  this 
time,  as  many  of  the  newer  comers  had  been  shipped 
to  another  one  —  for  we  had  not  planes  enough  to 
take  care  of  them  —  and  others  had  failed,  or  had 
been  discharged  because  of  illness.  I  felt  that  I 
was  safe  now,  however,  having  made  what  the 
Capitaine  termed  very  creditable  progress.  I  must 
have  had  the  constitution  of  a  horse,  for  I  had  stood 
up  under  the  strenuous  work  and  the  terrible  food, 
and  had  not  missed  a  single  morning  or  afternoon 
session  of  flying. 

My  forty-eight-hour  stay  in  Paris  began  on  Au- 
gust nineteenth,  and  it  proved  to  be  all  that  I  had 
anticipated. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  experienced  the 
real  delight  of  being  utterly  lazy,  of  lounging  around 
in  a  comfortable  hotel  chair  and  of  sleeping  between 
linen  sheets. 

I  also  made  the  acquaintance,  by  means  of  a  let- 
ter of  introduction  from  an  American  girl  who  was 
a  mutual  friend,  of  the  delightful  woman  who  was 
to  be  my  war  godmother,  Miss  Grace  Wood.  She 


8o  Go,  Get  'Em! 

was  middle  aged,  big-hearted  —  in  fact  one  of  the 
noblest  women  it  has  ever  been  my  good  fortune 
to  meet  —  and  an  indefatigable  worker  in  the  Croix 
Rouge  of  Paris.  From  that  date  on,  she  was  to 
care  for  me  like  a  second  mother. 

Paris  looked  decidedly 'different  than  it  had  when 
I  left  it,  nearly  three  months  previous,  for  now  I 
found  Yankee  soldiers  and  sailors  on  the  streets  in 
numbers,  antf  how  I  "  chinned  "  with  them,  getting 
all  the  latest  news  from  home,  down  to  the  dry-as- 
dust  batting  and  fielding  averages  in  the  baseball 
leagues!  Mine  was  a  real  rest,  and,  when  I  took 
the  train  back  toward  Avord,  I  had  to  drive  myself 
with  all  my  will  power  to  face  the  opposite  condi- 
tions to  which  I  knew  I  was  returning.  However, 
the  "  call  of  the  air  "  was  more  insistent  than  ever, 
and  it  increased  to  the  point  of  madness  as  a  full 
fortnight  passed  without  bringing  a  single  day  with 
conditions  fit  for  flying. 

During  this  spell  the  newly  established  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
club,  in  a  small  room  in  one  of  the  barracks,  proved 
another  God-send.  All  kinds  of  sandwiches,  choco- 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  8l 

late,  soap  and  other  little  luxuries  were  sold  at  the 
lowest  possible  prices,  and,  last  but  by  no  means 
least,  real  American  cigarettes.  You  cannot  know 
what  that  meant  to  us  unless  you  have  smoked  the 
cheap  French  kinds,  without  wearing  a  gas  mask. 
Then  the  room  had  the  usual  equipment  for  read- 
ing, writing  and  amusements,  including  "  canned  " 
music  of  the  "  Made  in  America  "  brand  —  it  was, 
in  fact,  a  little  bit  of  the  good  old  U.  S.  A.,  in  the 
heart  of  France.  It  would  be  impossible  to  over- 
estimate the  good  work  being  done  by  that,  and 
similar  institutions,  at  and  near  the  front. 

1  had  fully  expected  to  start  training  in  the  new 
type  of  machine  immediately  upon  my  return  to  the 
school,  but  none  was  ready  for  me.  Every  avail- 
able Caudron  had  been  smashed  by  the  Russian 
students,  who  were  wonderfully  bad  aviators  — 
fearless,  but  sadly  lacking  in  air  sense. 

For  nearly  two  more  weeks,  after  the  weather 
cleared  again,  I  continued  my  practice  work  in  a 
Bleriot,  one  day  establishing  a  very  fair  altitude 
record  for  a  pupil  in  a  monoplane  —  thirty-five  hun- 


82  Go,  Get  'Em! 


clred  meters.  More  than  once  1  kept  up  my  after- 
noon session  for  five  hours,  at  the  end  of  it  be- 
ing too  dog-tired  to  return  to  the  barracks,  and, 
instead,  stretched  myself  out  on  the  bare  ground 
beneath  one  of  the  hangars  and  slept  there,  fully 
dressed. 

These  continued  postponements  of  my  final  work 
at  Avord,  and  the  achievement  of  the  coveted 
"  brevet "  which  was  to  crown  it,  were  dishearten- 
ing; but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  did  no  harm,  for  one 
who  is  learning  to  be  a  fighting  pilote  cannot  imbibe 
too  much  experience  in  the  fundamentals.  Never- 
theless, it  was  difficult  to  be  philosophical  then,  for 
the  thought  of  the  possibility  of  having  to  spend 
any  part  of  the  Winter  there  was  unendurable,  and 
I  used  to  get  indigo  blue  at  times,  which  was  not 
difficult,  for  I  was  generally  tired  to  death  at  night. 
I  drew  some  slight  selfish  comfort  from  the  knowl- 
edge that  I  was,  after  all,  faring  better  than  several 
of  my  acquaintances,  for  a  few  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  the  school  and  others  reduced  from  the 
one-place  machines  to  those  of  the  bombing  type, 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  83 

which  sealed  their  doom  as  far  as  ever  driving  a 
fighting  chassc  plane  at  the  front  was  concerned. 
This  was  a  thing  that  we  all  dreaded. 

My  first  injury  —  a  minor  one  —  came  early  in 
September.  One  morning,  while  I  was  cranking  my 
own  machine  by  spinning  the  propeller,  it  kicked 
like  an  army  mule  and  rather  badly  strained  my 
back,  picking  out  a  spot  which  had  been  hurt  in 
football  some  years  before.  The  injury  did  not 
lay  me  up,  but  it  proved  rather  painful  and  — 
worse  —  knocked  out  my  digestion  for  the  first 
time.  The  gentle  diet  of  horsemeat,  lentils  and 
French  war-bread  is  not  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  weakened  stomach. 

September  fourteenth  stood  out  as  a  Red  Letter 
Day,  for  it  not  only  brought  my  biplane,  but  several 
long-delayed  boxes  from  home,  containing  flannels, 
a  wonderful  sweater,  candy  and  cigarettes.  I  felt 
like  a  millionaire.  The  heavier  underwear  was  most 
welcome  at  that  time,  for,  with  the  coming  of  Fall, 
and  flying  at  higher  altitudes,  I  was  beginning  to 
suffer  from  the  cold.  It  is  astonishing  how  much 


84  Go,  Get  'Em! 


keener  the  air  is  when  one  gets  a  few  hundred  feet 
above  the  ground.  It  has  a  bite  all  its  own. 

The  shift  to  a  biplane  was  a  welcomed  one,  and 
the  new  machine  surprised  me  with  its  steadiness. 
It  was  like  leaving  a  rowboat  that  is  tossed  about 
by  the  smallest  waves,  and  boarding  an  ocean  liner. 
Still  the  controls  were  much  "  harsher,"  and  re- 
quired the  exercise  of  almost  double  the  strength 
required  in  a  Bleriot. 

The  week  ushered  in  by  Sunday,  the  sixteenth, 
was  one  of  many  incidents.  First  came  the  news 
from  the  acrobatic  school  at  Pau  that  William 
Meeker,  a  lad  who  for  some  weeks  had  been  one 
of  my  closest  chums,  although  he  was  a  bit  ahead 
of  me  in  training,  had  been  killed.  Capitaine  Terrio 
had  pronounced  him  a  wonderful  pilote,  when  he 
graduated  from  our  school,  but  the  "  luck "  had 
not  been  with  him.  His  motor  had  stopped  when 
he  was  only  a  little  above  the  ground,  his  machine 
had  gone  into  a  wingslip  when  he  banked  a  bit  too 
hard,  and  he  had  crashed  down  to  death.  This  re- 
port confirmed  me  in  my  belief  that,  in  training  at 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  85 

least,  "  better  be  safe  than  sorry,"  is  the  motto  to 
follow. 

This  may  surprise  such  of  my  personal  acquaint- 
ances as  read  this;  but  it  is  a  fact  that  I  followed 
it  pretty  consistently  during  my  early  work,  and 
recommend  it  to  all  beginners  in  aviation.  Later, 
when  you  have  gained  the  mastery  of  your  ma- 
chine, you  can  take  chances — and  I  did,  a-plenty. 

The  very  next  evening  I  witnessed  a  piece  of 
the  other  kind  of  luck,  coupled  with  some  wonder- 
ful flying.  One  of  our  monitors,  who  was  also  a 
French  Ace,  got  caught  in  a  sudden  and  violent 
tempest,  with  lightning,  a  gale  of  wind  and  rain. 
We  stood  below  and  watched  his  machine  as  the 
sharp  flashes  of  lightning  illuminated  it  against  the 
rolling  black  clouds,  and  it  was  being  tossed  about 
unmercifully.  Only  a  miracle  could  save  him,  it 
seemed,  but  by  a  transcendent  display  of  coolness 
and  marvelous  control  he  brought  his  machine  safe 
to  earth  and  made  a  perfect  landing,  thereby  escap- 
ing what  looked  to  us  like  certain  death.  I  have 
never  seen  such  a  thrilling  exhibition  as  the  way  he 


86  Go,  Get  'Em! 


handled  that  tiny,  frail  aircraft  in  the  heart  of  the 
storm. 

On  September  nineteenth  the  school  was  visited 
by  several  United  States  officers  who  came  to  ex- 
amine us  for  immediate  admission  to  Uncle  Sam's 
service,  not  as  a  unit,  however,  but  as  individuals. 
Their  tests  were  extremely  simple,  or  we  had  been 
so  well  trained  that  they  seemed  so  to  me,  and  I 
passed  them  easily.  Yet,  when  the  time  came  when 
I  might  have  taken  the  oath  and  become  an  Ameri- 
can airman,  I  ducked  it.  This  may  seem  strange 
to  you,  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  been  crazy  to  make 
that  very  shift,  and  I  knew,  moreover,  that,  upon 
obtaining  my  brevet,  I  would  almost  certainly  get 
a  second  lieutenancy  with  pay  of  two  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month,  against  the  six  that  I  was  then  getting 
from  the  French  government,  and  the  eleven  to 
which  I  was  looking  forward.  To  be  perfectly 
frank,  the  consideration  of  additional  compensa- 
tion carried  a  strong  appeal,  for  the  minimum  ex- 
penses and  an  occasional  real  "  feed,"  ate  up  my 
monthly  allowance  in  no  time. 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  87 

The  reason  that  I  did  not  change  over  then,  was 
because  I  realized  that  I  would  be  wholly  subject  to 
American  orders,  and  the  word  went  around  that 
in  all  probability  those  who  did  change  would  not 
be  allowed  to  remain  and  complete  their  training 
at  Avord  and  Pau.  Despite  the  hardships,  the 
schooling  there  was  the  best  obtainable  then,  and  I 
determined  to  stick  and  round  mine  out.  I  felt 
that  if  I  could  really  become  an  "  A-i  "  'pilote  — 
whether  my  title  was  that  of  American  Lieutenant 
or  French  Corporal  —  I  would  be  of  more  value  to 
the  Allies,  and  so  to  my  own  country  in  the  long 
run,  especially  if  to  my  schooling  I  could  add  a 
period  of  actual  flying  and  fighting  with  the  old- 
timers  at  the  front.  There  was  always  the  possi- 
bility of  shifting  later. 

Finally,  what  America  might  be  able  to  do  in  the 
"  air-line,"  for  some  time  to  come,  was  prob- 
lematical, and  I  did  not  want  to  take  the  chance  of 
waiting,  perhaps  for  months.  I  wanted  to  fly  and 
fight  at  the  first  possible  moment. 

Thus  the  chance  that  I  had  wanted,  came,  and  I 


Go,  Get  'Em! 


put  it  resolutely  behind  me.  I  resumed  my  work 
with  the  heavy  Caudron  under  the  instruction  of 
Lieutenant  de  Kurnier  and  on  Friday,  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  September,  had  the  great  satisfaction  of 
being  told  that  in  the  afternoon  I  should  try  the 
first  of  the  three  final  tests,  which,  if  met  success- 
fully, would  give  me  my  brevet.  It  went  by  the 
name  of  the  petit  voyage,  and  in  my  case  meant 
a  fifty-mile  trip  'cross  country  from  Avord  to 
Chateauroux,  and  return. 

At  the  hour  set  for  the  start  of  my  first  journey 
away  from  the  home  fold,  there  was  a  pretty  stiff 
head-wind  blowing;  but  I  got  off,  lifted  my  slow, 
cumbersome  but  reliable  craft  to  an  altitude  of 
seventy-five  hundred  feet,  and  set  sail.  Like  all 
other  ships  bound  for  foreign  ports,  whether  on 
the  sea  or  in  the  air,  mine  was  equipped  with  map 
and  compass,  and  in  addition  had  a  gasoline  gauge, 
an  altimeter,  to  indicate  .the  height  from  the 
ground,  and  a  dial  registering  the  number  of  the 
motor's  revolutions  per  minute. 

From  a  mile  and  a  half  in  the  air  the  country 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  89 

beneath  appeared  like  a  different  world  from  that 
which  I  had  been  accustomed  to,  for  it  stretched 
flatly  away  for  immense  distances  in  every  direc- 
tion; familiar  objects  lost  their  distinctive  features 
and  took  on  geometric  shapes;  fields  and  little  for- 
ests became  patchwork  squares  of  subdued  and  vary- 
ing colors,  like  an  old-fashioned  and  oft-washed 
quilt  spread  over  some  sleeping  giant;  houses  were 
mere  toy  things  like  those  of  a  Japanese  table  deco- 
ration; roads  were  coarse  white  thread;  haystacks 
white  pinheads,  and  little  lakes,  bright  new  silver 
dollars. 

As  my  machine  undulated,  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  rock  gently  back  and  forth. 

Even  my  steady  craft  was  tossed  about  consid- 
erably by  the  air  waves,  and,  since  my  progress  was 
like  that  of  a  boat  bucking  a  strong  head-tide,  it 
took  me  a  full  hour  to  make  my  port  of  destination. 
On  the  earth,  fifty  miles  in  sixty  minutes  is  going 
some,  but  in  the  air  it  is  barely  crawling.  There 
are  no  fixed  objects  to  flash  past. 

When  almost  over  the  aviation  field  outside  the 


90  Go,  Get  'Em! 


little  gray  town  of  Chateauroux  —  located  by  means 
of  my  topographical  map  —  I  piqued  down  and 
made  a  successful  landing.  Then,  after  getting  my 
tank  refilled  with  essence,  as  the  French  call  gaso- 
line, and  having  my  paper  signed  by  the  Command- 
ant of  the  field,  I  started  for  home,  sailing  before 
the  wind. 

Half  the  distance  had  been  covered  when  my 
magneto  went  suddenly  bad,  and  I  experienced  the 
unpleasant  sensation  of  having  my  motor  stop  short, 
which  left  me  with  no  motive  power  and  more  than 
a  mile  in  the  air.  It  sounds  desperate,  but  in  real- 
ity the  danger  in  such  a  case  increases  in  adverse 
ratio  to  the  distance  from  the  ground.  Just  as  a 
sailor  likes  to  have  plenty  of  "  searoom "  in  a 
storm,  an  aviator  likes  to  have  plenty  of  "  air- 
room/'  Nevertheless,  it  certainly  gave  me  a  series 
of  thrills  and  a  rather  empty  feeling  inside  as  I 
volplaned  earthward  by  easy  degrees,  coasting  down 
the  gentle  slope  of  an  airy  mountainside.  Again 
it  was  a  case  of  the  danger  being  in  the  "  landing," 
and  I  had  plenty  of  worry,  for  I  did  not  know 


An  "  Upperclassman  " 


whether  I  should  have  the  good  luck  to  strike  a 
cleared  field,  or  the  bad  luck  to  plump  into  a  wood 
or  through  a  farmhouse  roof.  As  the  land  rose 
rapidly  I  saw  what  I  sought,  a  field,  and  made  for 
it,  landing  without  accident. 

It  took  me  only  a  little  time  to  find  and  fix  the 
trouble  in  my  magneto;  but,  before  I  was  ready  to 
reascend,  quite  a  crowd  of  open-mouthed  peasants, 
in  their  quaint  costumes,  had  gathered,  and,  when 
I  went  up,  it  was  with  their  names  and  initials  pen- 
ciled all  over  my  fuselage,  and  with  several  bunches 
of  field  flowers,  gifts  of  my  brief  acquaintances. 
I  quite  looked  the  part  of  a  hero. 

Dusk  had  fallen  before  my  flight  ended  safely 
at  home,  and  that  night  I  turned  in  with  the  feeling 
that  I  had  really  taken  a  step  forward  on  the  road 
to  the  front. 

The  day  following  was  the  most  strenuous  of  my 
whole  training  career  at  Avord.  After  nine  hours 
of  almost  consecutive  flying  I  came  to  earth  so 
weary  that  I  could  scarcely  totter;  but  proud,  and 
too  happy  for  words,  since  I  knew  that  I  had  fin- 


92  Go,  Get  'Em! 


ished  my  appointed  tasks  and  earned  my  brevet. 

That  morning  I  had  repeated  the  petit  voyage  of 
the  day  before  without  incident,  although,  going 
out,  my  engine  labored  like  an  old  horse  with  the 
heaves.  Then  I  did  my  first  grand  voyage.  This 
meant  a  trip  to  Chateauroux,  fifty  miles;  thence  one 
to  another  small  town  named  Romorantin  forty- 
eight  miles',  and  back  home  to  Avord,  fifty  miles, 
getting  my  paper  signed  at  each  place  visited. 
Nothing  of  special  interest  distinguished  this  tri- 
angular voyage,  and,  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  started 
to  cover  the  trail  again,  the  other  way  around. 

On  the  last  leg  of  it,  when  dusk  was  already 
falling  like  a  soft  mantle  over  the  earth  below,  a 
sudden  storm  blew  up,  and  I  plunged  into  a  flock 
of  billowy  gray  clouds.  They  blinded  and  seemed 
almost  to  stifle  me.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I 
wove  in  and  out  through  them,  half  the  time  being 
unable  to  see  my  hand  on  the  control  stick,  now 
coming  out  above  them  into  the  evening  sunlight, 
which  tinged  their  rolling  upper  surfaces  with  a 
golden  glow,  and  then  below,  so  that  they  formed 


R  E  P  U  B  L I O  U  K      ¥  R  A  N  g  A I S I . 


MJNISTERE      DE      LA     GUERRE 


BREVET 
D'AVIATEUR  MILITAIRE 


MR.    WELLMAN  S    COMMISSION    AS    AVIATOR    IN    THE 
FRENCH    ARMY 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  93 

a  soft,  dark  canopy  just  over  my  head.  Tired  of 
this  at  last,  I  piqued  down  from  my  then  altitude  of 
twenty-five  hundred  meters  to  one  of  five  hundred, 
where  the  flying  was  clearer,  but  very  rough,  and 
when  I  reached  home  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  hearty 
thanksgiving  that  I  struck  terra  firma,  and  received 
the  congratulations  of  my  friends. 

On  Saturday,  September  twenty-ninth,  I  received 
my  brevet  and  pilote's  license  —  a  gold  and  silver 
wreath  with  two  wings  —  with  a  brief  word  of  com- 
mendation from  the  Commandant.  The  exultant 
satisfaction  that  it  brought  with  it  more  than  re- 
paid me  for  all  the  petty  discomforts  of  the  camp. 
I  was  now  a  corporal  in  the  French  army  and  en- 
titled to  wear  a  single  golden  wing  on  either  side  of 
my  collar.  They  somehow  seemed  to  me  to  carry 
magic,  like  those  on  Mercury's  staff. 

Furthermore,  I  was  entitled  to  ten  days'  leave, 
but  this  time  the  privilege  was  only  an  irritation, 
as  I  did  not  have  money  enough  even  to  buy  a  ticket 
to  Paris  —  and,  of  course,  "  leave "  without 
"  Paris  "  was  no  leave  at  all. 


94  Go,  Get  'Em! 


The  front  now  began  to  seem  mighty  close  ahead ; 
but  it  was  separated  from  me  bya  final  brief  train- 
ing at  Avord  in  a  Nieuport  —  the  light,  fast,  fight- 
ing machine  commonly  used  at  the  front  —  and  the 
advanced  acrobatics  at  Pau  and  Plessis  Belleville. 

Said  quickly,  it  did  not  seem  like  much ;  but  once 
again  I  was  doomed  to  spend  two  solid  weeks  in 
twiddling  my  thumbs  and  seeing  everything  through 
dark  blue  glasses,  for  the  weather  was  awful. 
Rain,  high  winds  and  mists  were  on  the  program 
day  after  day,  so  that  I  succeeded  in  adding  scarcely  • 
anything  to  my  record  of  fifty  hours'  flying.  Fifty 
hours,  three  thousand  minutes  —  at  a  dollar  a  min- 
ute, three  thousand  dollars !  That  is  what  a  private 
teacher  would  have  charged  at  home,  and  I  had 
got  it  for  nothing ! 

By  this  time  the  conditions  of  living  had  begun 
to  get  on  my  nerves,  and  my  unhappiness  was  fur- 
ther increased  by  the  fact  that  the  French-American 
flying  corps  had  been  broken  up  by  the  departure 
of  a  considerable  number  of  my  former  comrades, 
who  had  joined  the  U.  S.  service.  During  this 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  95 

time,  too,  our  barracks  were  shifted  to  an  old  barn, 
but  recently  vacated  by  a  number  of  horses,  and 
even  the  fresh  coat  of  whitewash  could  not  success- 
fully disguise  that  fact.  You  American  boys,  in 
your  new  model  camps,  will  never  know  the  "  hor- 
rors of  war  "  as  illustrated  by  the  best  that  stricken 
France  could  do  for  her  men  in  training.  But, 
on  looking  back  at  my  experiences,  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  mine  was  the  better  part,  for  it  made  the 
front  seem  like  heaven  by  comparison.  You  have 
got  to  reverse  the  procedure. 

Even  in  writing  this  I  feel  in  a  hurry  to  get 
away  from  Avord  for  good,  so  I  will  not  pause  to 
describe  the  wonderful  little  Nieuports  until  later. 

Eventually  we  got  a  few  fairly  respectable  days 
and,  to  my  equal  delight  and  surprise,  I  was  "  grad- 
uated "  on  October  twenty-first.  I  had  gone 
through  the  school  in  five  months,  outstripping  sev- 
eral who  had  preceded  me  there. 

During  this  brief  preliminary  training  in  a  Nieu- 
port  I  made  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  "  Vick- 
ers  "  rapid  fire  gun  —  which  I  was  later  to  use  — 


96  Go,  Get  'Em! 


taking  it  apart  and  studying  the  construction.  As 
I  was  not  deeply  versed  in  mechanical  lore,  this  gun 
on  an  airplane  impressed  me  as  something  uncanny, 
for  it  sent  seven  hundred  shots  a  minute  through 
the  whirling  blades  of  the  propeller,  which,  in  a 
fast-flying  chasse  machine,  revolve  no  less  than 
seventeen  hundred  times  every  sixty  seconds. 
Think  of  the  delicate  mechanism  required  to  time 
the  two  accurately.  I  have  since  read  in  the  news- 
paper that  the  explanation  of  this  seeming  impossi- 
bility is  that  the  shafts  of  the  propeller  blades  are 
sheathed  with  metal  at  the  point  near  the  axis  where 
the  bullets  pass,  and  that  approximately  thirty  per 
cent,  of  them  do  hit.  That  certainly  is  absolutely 
untrue  in  the  case  of  any  machine  I  ever  used  or 
saw.  The  blades  were  all  of  unprotected  wood, 
and  occasionally  a  shot  would  pierce  them  clean, 
the  reason  being,  I  was  told,  that  the  gun  had  be- 
come overheated,  and  exploded  a  cartridge  out  of 
its  proper  timing. 

Two  incidents,  not  on  the  calendar,  happened  just 
before  I  left  the  school.     First,  one  of  the  wheels 


An  "  Upperclassman  "  97 


of  my  machine  came  off  as  I  was  about  to  leave  the 
ground  on  a  practice  flight,  and  both  plane  and  I 
turned  two  complete  somersaults  without  serious 
damage  to  either.  Then,  one  afternoon,  while  I 
was  cranking  my  machine,  I  foolishly  allowed  my 
head  to  get  too  near  the  spinning  propeller,  and 
received  an  uppercut  on  my  right  cheek,  just  below 
the  eye,  the  blow  neatly  slicing  off  a  piece  of  skin. 
It  was  a  close  shave  in  two  senses,  and  my  fortu- 
nate escape  from  a  more  serious  injury  reminded 
some  of  the  oldtimers  that,  early  in  the  Spring,  a 
young  Yankee  student  had  actually  been  decapitated 
in  that  manner. 

I  shook  the  dust  of  Avord  from  my  feet  with  no 
regrets,  although  I  left  many  good  friends  there, 
and,  on  the  twenty-first  of  October,  in  company 
with  David  Judd,  went  to  Paris  for  forty-eight 
hours  before  having  to  report  at  Pau.  By  this  time 
my  apparently  slight  head  wound  had  begun  to 
suppurate,  and  it  looked  so  bad,  and  felt  so  painful, 
that  one  of  the  first  things  I  did  upon  reaching 
the  French  metropolis  was  to  visit  Dr.  Gros.  The 


98  Go,  Get  'Em! 


cut  was  too  close  to  my  eye  to  take  any  chances 
with,  I  felt. 

He  found  that  the  cheek  bone  had  been  splintered 
and  that  a  sliver  of  it  was  still  in  the  wound.  A 
slight  operation  was  necessary  to  remove  it,  and  I 
left  his  office  looking  like  a  real  hero,  with  my  uni- 
form and  bandaged  head  and  eye. 

One  musical  show  was  the  extent  of  my  frivoli- 
ties in  Paris  that  trip ;  but  I  played  the  part  of  a  glut- 
ton when  it  came  to  eating,  sleeping  and  "  lazing/' 
On  the  twenty-fourth  Judd  and  I  left  Southward, 
bound  for  the  last  stage  of  the  long  journey  toward 
the  goal  of  my  desires  — "  The  Fighting  Front." 


CHAPTER  VI 


STUNTS  " 


PAU,  a  famous  summer  resort  of  some  thirty-five 
thousand  inhabitants  —  peace  basis, —  located  in  the 
extreme  south  of  France,  with  Spain  but  a  few  miles 
distant  across  the  snow-peaked  Pyrenees,  is  wonder- 
fully beautiful.  After  Avord  it  was  like  Paradise 
to  me. 

I  hope  some  day  to  visit  again  the  lovely  city, 
with  its  magnificent  hotels  and  merry  recreations, 
for,  although  our  camp  was  some  little  distance 
away,  and  the  weather  was  turning  cold,  so  that  I 
was  there  only  two  weeks,  chocked  full  of  work,  the 
place  is  one  of  wholly  delightful  memories. 

"  Duke  "  Sinclair,  Judd  and  I  were  still  together 
—  three  modern  musketeers, —  and  our  quarters 
overlooked  the  beautiful  rolling  fields  that  stretched 
away,  bisected  by  a  pleasant,  winding  stream,  to  the 

99 


IOO  Go,  Get  'Em! 

foot  of  the  mountain  steeps.  Never  before  had  I 
seen  such  glorious  sunsets  and  sunrises,  with  the 
glowing  multi-colored  tints  reflected  on  the  glisten- 
ing mountain  tops,  and,  since  the  old  schedule  of 
working  from  sun-up  to  sun-down  held,  I  never 
missed  one  of  them. 

Pau  was  our  "  finishing  school."  We  were  done 
with  the  drudgery  of  the  "  reading,  'riting  and  'rith- 
metic  "  of  aviation,  and  ready  to  learn  the  airy 
graces  without  which  both  a  society  debutante  and  a 
flying  fighter  are  helpless. 

The  machines  used  here  were  the  real  fighting 
Nieuports  of  varying  sizes  and  speeds.  What  a 
beauty  I  thought  the  first  one  that  was  given  me  to 
fly,  a  slender  little  thoroughbred  compared  with  the 
drayhorse  Caudron.  Its  fuselage  was  long  and 
tapering,  its  wings  only  eighteen  meters  from  tip  to 
tip  and  its  engine  and  eighty  horse-power  rotary 
Rhone,  which  alone  was  worth  something  over 
twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  Yet  even  this  was  low- 
powered  and  cumbersome  beside  the  type  I  was  soon 
to  fly.  Nevertheless,  it  could  make  better  than  a 


"  Stunts  "  Tor- 


hundred  miles  an  hour,  and  the  exhilaration  pro- 
duced by  traveling  through  the  stinging  cold  air  at 
that  speed  was  the  most  glorious  sensation  I  had 
ever  known.  When  it  came  to  making  a  landing  at 
a  speed  scarcely  less,  it  took  a  perfect  eye  and  a  no 
less  perfect  judgment,  not  to  mention  nerve. 

The  first  class  in  "  stunts  "  was  called  the  vol  de 
groupe.  In  plain  English  it  was  a  game  of  follow 
the  leader.  One  man  would  set  the  pace  and  the 
other,  for  we  worked  in  pairs  at  first  and  later  in 
quartets,  would  follow  fifty  meters  behind  and  the 
same  distance  above  —  if  he  could. 

The  first  day  I  went  up  trailing  "  Juddy,"  and  at 
first  I  flew  so  close  that  I  could  read  the  small  letter 
on  his  essence  tank.  He  pointed  upward  in  a  steep 
spiral  climb  and  in  five  minutes  we  had  reached  an 
altitude  of  two  thousand  meters  —  more  than  a 
mile.  How  those  Nieuports  could  climb ! 

For  two  hours  he  circled  about,  with  me  follow- 
ing as  closely  as  possible  to  the  prescribed  distance. 
With  one's  machine  going  at  a  hundred  miles  an 
hour,  you  can  perhaps  imagine  how  hard  it  is  to 


102  Go,  Get  'Em! 


keep  at  anything  like  a  stated  distance,  especially  as 
you  have  no  idea  what  the  "  leader  "  is  going  to  do 
next.  Judd  might  pique  suddenly  and  leave  me 
shooting  off  into  space  like  a  rifle  ball,  and  I  could 
imagine  him  laughing  at  me.  It  was  a  great  game, 
and,  although  it  was  physically  tiring,  I  was  sorry 
to  see  him  head  for  the  field. 

We  flew  almost  every  possible  moment  during  the 
second,  third  and  fourth  of  November  in  this  vol  de 
groupe.  The  last  flight  alternated  between  three 
thousand,  and  fifty  meter  altitudes,  and,  at  the  lower 
level,  it  was  as  exciting  as  any  steeple  chase.  This 
time  Sinclair  was  leader,  and  three  wild  boys  never 
played  more  foolish  pranks  than  he,  Judd  and  I  that 
afternoon.  To  end  up,  he  spotted  a  train,  and  led 
us  in  circles  around  and  only  a  little  above  it,  like 
dolphins  playing  about  a  slow  tramp  steamer.  If 
our  motors  had  quit  when  we  were  at  that  small 
altitude  it  would  have  spelt  the  end  of  all  games, 
but  luck  was  with  us,  and  we  certainly  gave  the 
passengers  a  few  thrills  not  called  for  by  their 
tickets. 


"  Stunts "  103 


The  next  day  I  was  moved  up  a  rung  on  the  lad- 
der leading  to  success,  and  given,  to  use  in  my  track- 
ing, a  hundred  and  ten  horse-powered,  thirteen 
meter  winged  plane,  still  a  Nieuport,  whose  speed 
was  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  an  hour.  This 
was  the  most  powerful  and  nimble  plane  I  had  ever 
flown,  and  the  feeling  of  having  mastery  over  it  was 
delicious,  for  it  answered  to  the  slightest  touch. 

There  followed  a  few  days  of  individual  practice 
in  the  more  complicated  "  stunts,"  without  the 
knowledge  of  which  a  fighting  pilot  would  be  help- 
less against  an  expert  adversary.  They  may  be  said 
to  correspond  to  the  "  foot-work "  of  a  skilled 
boxer. 

The  simplest  was  the  loop  the  loop,  which  needs 
no  description.  Then  followed  the  vrille,  or  spin- 
ning nose  dive,  with  motor  cut  off,  and  this,  too,  is 
almost  self-explanatory.  Of  course  the  plane  dives 
vertically  and  at  the  same  time  turns  on  its  own 
axis.  I  was  later  to  learn  that  a  great  variety  of  ac- 
cidents would  throw  my  plane  into  the  vrille,  and, 
in  order  to  enter  it  deliberately,  it  was  only  neces- 


104 


Go,  Get  'Em! 


sary  to  pique  vertically  down  by  dipping  my  rear 
controls  and  then  tip  the  side  ailerons  either  way, 
whereupon  the  machine  would  proceed  to  imitate  a 


Looping  the  Loop 
magnified  corkscrew  in  an  airy  bottle  containing  a 
draught  as  exhilarating  as  champagne,  and  almost 
as  "  heady  "  at  times,  for  the  sudden  dive  from  the 
rarer  atmosphere  of  the  high  altitudes  to  the  denser 
air  near  the  earth  produced  a  pressure  which  I  some- 
times had  to  counteract  by  compressing  the  air  inside 
my  head  with  cheeks  extended. 

Here  let  me  answer  a  question  which  has  been 
asked  me  often — "  What  do  you  aviators  wear  to 


"  Stunts"  105 


protect  your  eyes  and  faces  from  the  rush  of  wind?  " 
The  answer  is,  "  Nothing."  A  leather  helmet,  fur- 
lined,  covers  the  head  like  a  child's  knitted  woolen 
one ;  but  the  only  protection  that  the  face  gets  is  that 
furnished  by  a  glass  windshield  like  that  on  an  auto- 
mobile. "  But,''  sometimes  say  my  questioners, 
"  isn't  a  glass  shield  dangerous?  Suppose  it  is  shat- 
tered by  a  bullet."  The  answer  is,  if  that  happens 
the  chances  are  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of 
a  thousand  that  the  flyer  will  not  be  worrying  about 
flying  glass,  or  anything  else  for  long.  Of  course, 
some  airmen  wear  goggles,  but  I  never  did. 

Then  followed  the  tournant.  It  proved  to  be  very 
simple  and  amusing.  You  merely  give  the  control 
stick  a  swift  jerk  to  one  side  and  back,  and  the  plane 
rolls  completely  over  in  the  air  as  quick  as  a  wink. 
Its  particular  purpose  is  to  make  your  machine  a 
more  difficult  object  to  hit  when  you  are  being 
shot  at. 

I  next  tackled  "  Russian  Mountain,"  the  renverse- 
ment  and  the  vertical  virage,  and  since  they  are  all 
highly  important  to  the  fighter  and  I  shall  have  occa- 


io6 


Go,  Get  'Em! 


sion  to  use  the  terms  frequently  hereafter,  I  will 
endeavor  to  make  their  meaning  clear,  both  by  word 
and  picture  description. 

The  first  mentioned  consists  merely  in  diving  with 


A  "Russian  Mountain" 

motor  going,  then  shutting  it  off  so  that  the  strain 
on  the  plane  will  not  be  more  than  it  can  stand  up 
under,  and  suddenly  straightening  out  parallel  to 
the  earth  by  pushing  the  control  stick  from  you  and 


"  Stunts "  107 


so  elevating  the  rear  ailerons,  then  starting  the  mo- 
tor and  again  raising  the  elevator,  which  causes 
your  plane  to  shoot  upward.  The  machine  is  not 
the  only  thing  to  feel  the  strain  of  these  abrupt 
checks  and  turns  in  midair.  You  who  have  ridden 
on  a  steep  roller-coaster  with  sharp  dips,  can  guess 
what  I  mean,  and,  if  you  can  imagine  the  speed 
increased  twofold,  you  will  understand  how  it  came 
about  that  I  was  minus  my  breakfast  after  the  first 
time  that  I  tried  it. 


A  Rewversement 

The  second,  the  renversemcnt,  changes  the  direc- 
tion of  your  plane  in  the  following  manner :     You 


108  Go,  Get  'Em! 

start  upward  in  a  loop  the  loop,  and,  when  flying 
head  downward,  cut  off  the  motor  and  by  tilting  the 
side  ailerons  go  into  a  wingslip  and  continue  this  in 
a  semicircle  until  your  machine  has  turned  over  and 
resumed  a  horizontal  position  going  in  the  direction 
opposite  from  the  one  in  which  it  was  headed  a  few 
seconds  before.  This  is  a  highly  useful  trick  when 
an  enemy  is  behind  and  above  you,  and  you  want  to 
reverse  positions  so  as  to  dive  on  him.  Flying  up- 
side down  sounds  desperate,  I  suppose ;  but  it  is  not. 
You  are  held  in,  both  by  centrifical  force  and  the 
body  straps  which  come  up  under  your  thighs,  cross 
your  shoulders  and  fasten  over  your  stomach  by  a 
mechanical  device  which  will  instantly  spring  open 
and  release  you  upon  being  struck  a  smart  blow. 
Besides,  most  of  these  tricks  are  pulled  off  so  quickly 
that  you  have  no  time  to  consider  the  fact  that  you 
are  not  in  the  position  normal  to  man,  and,  when 
you  are  two  or  three  miles  in  the  air,  the  earth  has 
ceased  to  be  the  thing  by  which  you  govern  your 
movements. 

The  vertical  virage  is  a  quick  reversal  of  direc- 


"  Stunts "  109 


tion,  made  by  turning  sharply  on  the  same -plane, 
with  your  machine  banked  until  it  is  tilted  almost  at 
right  angles  to  the  earth. 

I  went  through  the  whole  performance,  loops, 


A  Vertical  Virage 

vrilles,  tournants,  virages,  and  renversements,  in  a 
single  day,  but  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  a  chap 
to  be  so  sick  at  first  that  he  would  be  laid  up  for 
two  or  three  days.  This  happened  in  Sinclair's 
case. 

Then  I  tackled  the  so-called  vol  de  precision,  which 
was  another  game  —  a  game  of  quoits,  with  your 
machine  as  the  quoit.  A  small  white  circle,  some 
twenty  yards  in  diameter,  was  painted  upon  the  mid- 
dle of  the  field,  and  we  were  told  to  go  up  to  an  alti- 
tude of  a  thousand  meters,  cut  our  motors,  plane 
until  the  propeller  was  motionless  and  then  pique 
and  head  for  the  circle.  Landing  within  it  twice  in 


HO  Go,  Get  'Em! 


succession  passed  us  out  of  this  class.  I  accom- 
plished' it  after  one  failure;  but  Tom  Hitchcock, 
who  arrived  at  Pau  soon  after  I  did,  was  successful 
on  his  first  two  attempts  and,  in  fact,  went  through 
the  school  there  as  he  had  at  Avord,  "  a-flying." 
This  test,  of  course,  was  one  of  eyesight  in  aiming 
for  the  mark  and  of  judgment  in  redressing,  or  pull- 
ing up  at  exactly  the  right  moment.  The  machine 
hit  the  ground  like  a  bat  out  of  hell. 

The  final  class  was  termed  the  vol  de  combat,  and, 
although  it  was  still  only  a  game,  it  fired  my  blood 
and  made  me  wild  to  try  out  the  real  thing.  The 
first  half  represented  an  actual  fight  over  the  first 
line  trenches,  whose  location  was  marked  by  the 
little  river  below,  and  it  was  patterned  as  closely  as 
possible  upon  what  we  were  later  to  experience 
almost  daily  in  dead  earnest. 

Three  of  the  expert  French  flyers,  with  a  leader, 
were  detailed  to  represent  the  Boche,  and  the  rest 
of  the  class,  some  ten  in  number,  with  a  veteran  in 
command,  were  the  Allies.  We  went  up  as  opposing 
patrols,  putting  into  practice  what  we  had  learned 


"  Stunts"  in 


in  the  vol  de  groupe,  and,  for  some  minutes,  flew 
back  and  forth  on  opposite  sides  of  the  stream.  At 
last  their  leader  gave  the  signal  to  attack  by  moving 
his  manche  a  balai  rapidly  from  side  to  side  which 
made  his  plane  rock  violently,  his  idea  being  to  catch 
us  unaware  and  break  up  our  group.  The  "enemy" 
obeyed,  and  sprang  to  the  attack. 

On  the  hood  directly  in  front  of  me  was  my 
"  gun  " —  a  perfect  imitation  of  a  Vickers,  fixed  and 
pointed  forward  through  the  propeller;  but,  instead 
of  a  belt  of  death-dealing  cartridges  with  which  to 
annihilate  the  Boche,  it  contained  a  camera  and  film. 
The  shutter  was  operated  by  pulling  a  regulation  trig- 
ger attached  to  my  control  stick,  and  just  below  the 
little  wheel  that  topped  it.  The  trigger  was  pulled 
by  the  left  hand,  of  course. 

We  had  previously  received  instruction  on  the 
various  methods  of  attacking  an  enemy  —  the  theory 
of  assaulting  a  monoplane  like  our  own  being  to 
gain  altitude  on  it,  and  dive,  from  the  rear  if  pos- 
sible, for,  as  its  gun  was  "  fixed  "  and  pointing  for- 
ward like  our  own,  the  pilot  could  shoot  only  by 


112  Go,  Get  'Em! 

aiming  his  whole  machine  at  us.  I  selected  my 
"  victim  "  from  the  oncoming  enemy  planes,  gained 
my  altitude  over  him,  and,  with  the  joy  of  battle  — 
even  if  it  were  only  a  sham  —  sending  the  blood 
singing  in  my  ears,  I  swooped  down  at  him,  and 
"  shot." 

The  combat  was  over  in  a  few  moments,  and  I  re- 
turned to  earth  to  seek  out  my  late  opponent  and  tell 
him,  gloatingly,  that  he  was  theoretically  dead.  My 
triumph  was  short  lived.  When  the  film  from  my 
gun  was  developed  it  showed  a  beautiful  expanse 
of  clear  sky.  Of  course,  to  have  registered  a 
kill,  the  hostile  plane  would  have  had  to  appear 
on  it. 

I  may  as  well  state  here  that  in  actual  battle  the 
range  is  usually  obtained  by  firing  flaming,  or 
"  tracer,"  bullets,  whose  course  is  visible  in  the  form 
of  a  small  streak  of  fire  and  smoke.  Moreover, 
since  machines  traveling  at  a  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  and  upward,  pass  each  other  with  terrific  speed 
and  offer  a  most  illusive  target,  the  custom  is  never 
to  open  fire  until  you  are  almost  on  top  of  the  enemy. 


"  Stunts"  113 


Twenty-five  yards  is  too  far  for  accuracy;  fifteen  is 
more  certain. 

The  last  half  of  this  battle  training  took  the  form 
of  an  attack  on  a  Boche  bombing  plane.  In  a  small 
pond  there  was  constructed  a  canvas  target,  the 
shape  and  size  of  a  big  "  Gotha"  its  actual  proto- 
type being  a  huge  unwieldy  three-place  plane  with 
triple  motors  and  propeller. 

I  was  instructed  to  ascend  and  do  a  few  warming- 
up  acrobatic  stunts,  and  then  finish  by  doing  a 
virage,  starting  at  only  five  hundred  meters  above 
the  ground.  Just  before  making  the  horizontal  turn 
I  was  to  let  the  enemy  have  it.  For  this  I  had,  of 
course,  a  real  Vickers  gun,  which  would  continue  to 
shoot  as  long  as  my  finger  remained  on  the  trigger, 
at  least  it  would  until  the  belt  of  cartridges  was  ex- 
hausted, or  it  jammed. 

It  did  very  well  for  a  practice  performance;  but  it 
was  not  a  real  test  of  such  fighting,  because,  in  the 
first  place,  at  such  a  low  altitude  you  had  to  pay  too 
much  attention  to  your  plane  to  give  a  great  deal  to 
your  marksmanship,  and,  in  the  second,  no  self- 


114  Go,  Get  'Em! 

respecting  pilot  attacks  a  two  or  more  place  machine 
from  above.  The  observer  or  bomber  in  the  rear 
seat  is  also  a  gunner,  and  his  weapon  is  swiveled,  so 
that  you  furnish  him  an  easy  mark  if  you  dive  down 
at  him. 

On  my  first  attempt  I  landed  ten  out  of  a  possible 
hundred  shots  in  the  target,  and  on  my  second  bet- 
tered this  by  two,  which,  the  instructor  said,  was  not 
bad  shooting.  Nor  was  it,  considering  the  fact  that 
we  had  had  no  gunnery  practice,  and  the  aiming  had 
to  be  done,  not  with  the  gun  but  with  the  ma- 
chine. One  shot  in  a  vital  spot  would  do  the  busi- 
ness! 

My  fortnight  at  Pau  was  one  of  unalloyed  de- 
light, and  its  successful  termination  brought  my 
commission  as  corporal,  and  a  certificate  upon  which 
the  commandant  wrote  the  words,  "  A  born  aviator, 
but  crazy."  (I  told  you  that  I  took  chances,  after  I 
had  learned  the  rudiments.)  In  fact  the  common 
expression  among  French  flyers  was,  f(  Tous  les 
Americains  sont  -fous" — which,  being  interpreted, 
means,  "  All  the  Americans  are  crazy,"  and  it  was 


"Stunts"  115 


^    term    complimentary    rather    than    otherwise. 

Moreover,  this  ended  my  worries,  for,  with  my 
certificate,  went  a  recommendation  that  I  be  given 
a  Spad  monoplane  fighting  chasse  (the  word 
"  Spad  "  being  coined  from  the  initials  of  the  mak- 
ers) which  was  the  fastest  French  plane  then  used, 
having  a  two  hundred  and  twenty  horse-power  fixed 
Espano-Suiza  motor. 

I  was  sent  immediately,  on  November  twelfth,  to 
Plessis  Belleville  to  await  my  assignment  to  an 
Escadrille  at  the  front,  and,  with  an  occasional  brief 
leave  spent  in  Paris,  remained  there  until  December 
third. 

Plessis  Belleville,  a  few  hours'  ride  outside  the 
Metropolis,  somehow  sounded  delightful,  as  though 
it  might  be  a  charming  little  suburb.  It  was  in 
reality  a  good  deal  of  a  dump,  and,  since  the  bar- 
racks were  then  overcrowded  and  the  army  canteen 
had  been  closed  for  some  reason  or  other,  I  had  to 
hire  a  room  in  an  inexpensive  but  clean  lodging 
house,  run  by  an  energetic  gray-haired  little  English 
woman  named  Mrs.  Abbott,  and  buy  my  own  meals. 


Il6  Go,  Get  'Em! 

If  money  had  been  scarce  before,  now  it  seemed  to 
vanish  on  wings,  and  only  a  belated  gift  from  home, 
promptly  sent  in  response  to  an  earlier  wail,  saved 
me  from  committing  crime.  Moreover,  I  had  only 
one  uniform,  and,  since  I  would  have  had  to  go  to 
bed  to  have  this  pressed,  it  went  wrinkled,  which 
was  disconcerting,  for  my  companions  told  me  that 
the  French  government  liked  to  have  its  men  well 
dressed  when  they  were  captured  by  the  Germans, 
and  I  did  not  like  to  face  the  thought  of  disgracing 
the  flag  under  which  I  flew. 

However,  I  hoped  for  the  best,  trusting  that  Santa 
Claus  would  prove  to  be  a  mind  reader,  and  spent 
almost  every  moment  of  the  much  diminished  day- 
light in  training  flights  in  my  wonderful  new  ma- 
chine, and  in  gun  practice. 

The  first  Spad  which  they  gave  me  to  try  out  in 
had  a  hundred  and  fifty  horse-power,  super-com- 
pressed engine,  which  developed  one  hundred  and 
eighty.  It  mounted  a  single  Vickers  gun  shooting 
through  the  propeller  as  I  have  described. 

Plessis  Belleville  ended  my  postgraduate  special- 


"Stunts"  117 


izing  course  of  training.  It  also  very  nearly  ended 
my  life.  As  I  have  said,  I  flew  daily  whenever  the 
weather  offered  the  slightest  possibility  of  going  up, 
even  though  it  might  be  cloudy  and  windy,  for  by 
this  time  I  had  come  to  regard  myself  as  a  competent 
pilot,  fully  able  to  handle  a  plane  under  all  ordinary 
conditions,  and  was  at  the  same  time  determined  to 
practice,  practice,  practice  until  I  was  more  than 
merely  competent. 

Here  let  me  say  that  mere  wind  of  a  velocity  that 
ten  years  ago  would  have  made  flying  suicidal,  has 
now  no  terrors  to  the  pilot  of  a  modern,  high- 
powered,  speedy  machine.  We  can  ride  an  ordinary 
gale  and  laugh  at  it,  although  there  is  little  laughing 
done  when  it  comes  to  landing  in  one.  The  air  is 
always  more  treacherous  near  the  ground.  Nor 
are  the  much  talked  of  and  dreaded  "  air-holes  "  of 
a  decade  ago  any  longer  things  of  terror.  They  are 
present,  of  course,  and  occasionally  your  machine 
will  drop  suddenly  in  one ;  but  the  speedy  planes  gen- 
erally slide  over  them  as  does  a  flying  skater  over  a 
stretch  of  thin  ice.  Heavy  mist  and  very  low  hang- 


Il8  Go,  Get  'Em! 


ing  clouds  —  in  fact  anything  which  produces  what 
the  sailors  call  "  low  visibility  " —  are  the  bane  of 
the  flyer's  existence,  for  one  cannot  feel  his  way 
through  the  air  as  he  does  on  the  ground,  and  it  is 
a  bit  difficult  to  avoid  an  unsuspected  obstacle  when 
coming  suddenly  upon  it,  at  a  speed  of  better  than  a 
hundred  miles  an  hour. 

On  one  of  the  last  days  of  my  work  at  Plessis 
Belleville  the  gray,  wintry-looking  clouds  were  very 
low  and  lowering,  not  more  than  three  hundred 
yards  above  the  earth,  but  I  flew  morning  and  after- 
noon, nevertheless,  and  about  four  o'clock  was  back 
on  the  field  for  a  new  supply  of  gas,  when  the  moni- 
tor called  out,  "  Last  ride  of  the  night,"  and  then, 
turning  to  me,  added,  "  Wellman,  take  your  ma- 
chine." 

I  obeyed,  got  started,  and  climbed  in  leisurely 
circles  until  my  plane  was  just  about  to  nose  inquisi- 
tively into  the  unpleasant  moist  bank  above,  when  I 
straightened  out  and  glanced  downward.  I  could 
not  see  a  thing.  The  world  had  vanished,  swal- 
lowed up  in  fog,  dull  white  and  impenetrable. 


"Stunts"  119 


Once,  in  the  movies,  I  had  seen  a  thrilling  melo- 
drama in  which  the  floor  of  a  secret  chamber  rose 
ceilingwards  to  crush  the  imprisoned  heroine.  1 
felt  a  good  deal  as  though  something  of  the  sort  was 
happening  to  me.  Of  course  I  could  dive  through 
that  floor  much  as  Alice  went  through  the  dissolving 
looking-glass,  but  in  my  case  it  would  not  help  much 
if  I  could  not  see  the  earth  until  I  felt  it.  Still, 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  and  I  turned  to 
the  left  as  is  customary  in  making  a  tour  de  piste, 
piqued  down,  and  headed  for  the  spot  where  I 
thought  that  I  might  be  able  to  pick  up  the  two 
railroad  stations  as  guideposts  in  locating  the  field. 
You  know  the  feeling  of  a  small  child  lost  in  the 
dark.  I  had  it.  I  did  not  have  the  faintest  idea 
where  to  turn,  or  whether  I  was  right  side  up,  and 
it  was  steadily  growing  darker.  Suddenly  my  mo- 
tor determined  my  course  of  action  for  me  by  stop- 
ping dead,  and  then  my  sensations  changed  from 
helpless  uncertainty  to  acute  anxiety,  for  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  dive  from  my  altitude 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  meters,  and  trust  to  luck. 


120  Go,  Get  'Em! 

I  braced  my  feet  and  gritted  my  teeth  to  keep  my 
heart  a  part  of  my  anatomy,  while  the  cold  sweat 
started  out  all  over  me.  Suddenly  the  mist  grew 
a  little  thinner,  and  I  dimly  made  out  the  formation 
of  a  small  field,  heavily  wooded  on  either  side,  not 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below.  Without 
my  motor  to  pull  me  clear,  and  lacking  altitude  to 
glide  over  the  tree  tops  I  could  do  nothing  but  keep 
on  into  the  pocket.  As  I  rushed  downward  I  real- 
ized that  I  was  headed  into  a  field  filled  with  old 
barbwire  entanglements  erected  by  the  Boche  when 
they  were  stopped  at  this  place,  during  the  first  battle 
of  the  Marne,  in  their  drive  for  Paris  in  1914.  Now 
my  fright,  growing  out  of  my  utter  helplessness, 
turned  to  anger  at  Fate  in  playing  me  such  a  scurvy 
trick.  With  clinched  teeth  I  put  into  practice  the 
old  rule,  "  when  in  doubt,  keep  on,"  and  went  into 
the  wire  like  a  football  player  hitting  the  line.  My 
machine  crashed  to  a  sudden  stop,  I  felt  myself 
being  shot  from  it  like  a  rock  out  of  a  catapult,  there 
was  a  blinding  flash  like  lightning  before  my  eyes, 
and  then  .  .  .  nothing. 


"  Stunts  "  121 


My  next  impression  was  produced  by  the  taste  of 
some  vile  French  wine.  My  head  began  to  split 
open  with  pain,  and  I  dazedly  unclosed  my  eyes  to 
the  sight  of  the  sides  of  a  rude  farm  wagon.  I  was 
still  alive,  then,  I  thought  with  some  astonishment, 
and  I  found  myself  dumbling  whispering  the  words, 
"'Laugh  and  Live/  God  bless  old  Douglas  Fair- 
banks." The  cheery  philosophy  contained  in  his 
book,  which  had  been  my  only  literature  for  months, 
had  come  to  my  aid. 

What  had  happened  during  my  absence  from  the 
world  of  conscious  things,  was  this,  I  found.  My 
fall  into  the  wire  and  solo  flight  through  the  air, 
which  had  ended  in  a  headfirst  dive  into  the  ground, 
had  been  witnessed  by  a  farmer's  lad.  He  had 
taken  it  for  granted  that  I  was  dead,  and  had  hur- 
ried to  town,  half  an  hour's  trip  distant,  to  get  his 
father.  The  latter  had  returned  with  his  farm 
horse  and  wagon  and  found  me,  an  hour  after  my 
accident,  lying  unconscious,  and  with  my  face 
ground  into  the  dirt.  Naturally  my  machine  was 
smashed  to  bits,  but,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  was 


122  Go,  Get  'Em! 


merely  bunged  up  a  little,  and,  although  I  was  kept 
in  the  camp  hospital  for  three  days,  at  the  end  of  the 
period  I  came  out  as  good  as  new. 

On  Saturday,  December  the  first,  I  was  given  my 
fur-lined  combination  flying  suit,  warm  boots  and 
duffle  bag  to  keep  them  in,  signed  out  of  the  school, 
and  told  to  go  to  Paris  and  await  my  final  assign- 
ment to  the  front.  Moreover,  the  same  day  brought 
a  big  package  of  heavy  underwear,  socks  and  a 
sweater  from  home,  and  a  marvelous  comfort  bag 
from  another  source,  so  I  was  fully  equipped  for  the 
fray. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BOCHE   BOMBS 

MY  schooling  was  ended.  I  was  a  full-fledged 
birdman,  and,  eager  to  try  my  wings  in  the  work  for 
which  they  had  been  trained,  I  went  to  Paris. 

A  whole  week-end  was  mine  before  I  had  to  report 
for  duty  with  Escadrille  N.  87  in  the  Lorraine  sec- 
tor near  Nancy  —  my  orders  having  reached  me  the 
same  day  that  I  reached  Paris  —  and  I  resolved  to 
make  the  most  of  it. 

To  my  great  pleasure  one  of  the  first  persons 
whom  I  met  at  the  hotel  '  Trangois  Choiseul "  on 
Rue  Saint  Honore  was  a  charming  and  courageous 
American  girl,  whom  I  knew  very  well.  That  even- 
ing we  went  together  to  see  a  musical  comedy,  which 
I  enjoyed  almost  as  much  as  though  I  had  been  able 
to  understand  the  words.  After  all,  any  one  who 
has  attended  such  in  America  knows  that  the  lines 

123 


124  Go,  Get  'Em! 

are  non-essential,  and  this  is  doubly  true  in  Paris. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  hotel  we  stopped  for  light 
refreshments  at  the  "  Cafe  de  la  Paix."  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  we  stepped  from  its  brilliant 
lights  into  the  cold,  clear  night.  The  streets  were 
quiet,  few  pedestrians  were  about,  and,  high  above, 
the  night  sky  seemed  inestimably  distant,  and  the 
stars  merely  sparkles  of  diamond  dust. 

Night  air  raids  by  the  Boche  barbarians  had  be- 
come so  frequent  an  occurrence  that  it  seemed  almost 
strange  not  to  hear  the  air-splitting  clamor  of  the 
Alert e,  and  the  sounds  of  explosions,  nearby  and 
deafening,  or  rumbling  in  the  distance. 

With  little  conversation  we  walked  together  under 
the  spell  of  the  peaceful  night.  One  instant  the  si- 
lence was  that  of  a  slumbering  city.  The  next  it 
was  shattered  by  the  most  appalling  detonation  and 
crash.  The  earth  shuddered  and  the  rush  of  air 
from  the  concussion  nearly  threw  us  from  our  feet. 

Before  the  reverberations  of  the  first  explosion 
had  ceased  there  came  another,  but  a  little  farther 
off,  and  instantly  a  third.  Then,  to  the  terrible  clat- 


Boche  Bombs  125 


ter  of  falling  buildings  and  the  terrified  cries  from 
the  few  people  on  the  streets  and  from  windows  hur- 
riedly thrown  open,  was  added  the  nerve-racking 
pandemonium  of  the  Alerte  —  the  long-drawn 
Banshee  wail  of  the  siren,  the  piercing  notes  of  the 
bugle  and  the  clamoring  chorus  of  horns,  all  inter- 
mingled in  one  insane  dissonance. 

Jt  was  the  warning  that  the  Boche  bombing  ma- 
chines were  coming  over  the  city.  Were  coming? 
They  had  come,  with  a  vengeance,  and  their  work  of 
fiendish  destruction  had  been  completed  before  their 
arrival  was  even  suspected. 

How  had  it  happened  ?  A  guess  which  I  hazarded 
was  confirmed  by  the  brief  press  report  the  following 
morning.  With  the  satanic  ingenuity  of  the  Hun  in 
evildoing,  two  of  their  bombing  Gothas  had  climbed 
to  a  dizzy  altitude  during  their  trip  Parisward,  and, 
when  they  approached  the  listening  posts  which 
encircle  the  city  several  miles  distant,  had  cut  out 
their  motors  and  volplaned  over  them  as  silently  as 
any  night  birds  of  prey,  escaping  detection  entirely. 

They  had  dropped  three  deadly  torpedo  bombs  on 


126  Go,  Get  'Em! 


a  district  less  than  half  a  mile  from  us,  near  the 
"  Hotel  de  Ville,"  on  Rue  Saint  Germaine,  and  had 
demolished  one  whole  block  of  store  and  apartment 
buildings.  A  big  gas  reservoir  had  also  been 
struck  and  shattered. 

I  looked  at  my  companion,  and  found  her  calmer 
than  I  was. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  to  the  hotel?  "  I  asked. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  there?"  she  answered  in 
Yankee  fashion. 

I  told  her  that  I  wanted  rather  to  see  what  damage 
had  been  done,  and,  like  a  good  sport  and  real  Amer- 
ican, she  said  at  once  that  she  would  accompany  me. 

We  headed  in  the  direction  of  the  explosions,  at  a 
walk  that  was  half  run.  As  we  proceeded,  others 
joined  us ;  but  we  did  not  need  their  guidance,  for 
now  the  sky  was  alight  from  flames  that  had  shot 
up  with  astonishing  quickness.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  we  had  reached  our  destination. 

What  a  scene  of  desolation  and  horror!  One 
whole  block  of  brick  buildings  had  been  wrecked; 
portions  of  it  were  in  ruins,  razed  to  the  ground; 


Boche  Bombs  127 


other  portions,  shattered  and  already  afire,  still 
stood;  but  were  on  the  verge  of  crumbling.  The 
nearby  gas  container  was  blazing  fiercely,  the  ruddy 
flames  thrusting  their  quivering  tongues  high  into 
the  air. 

We  joined  the  scattered  but  momentarily  increas- 
ing crowd,  many  of  whom,  in  every  stage  of  attire, 
had  rushed  from  neighboring  homes/and  directly  in 
front  of  us  was  a  spectacle  to  haunt  one's  dreams. 
Held  with  difficulty  by  five  men  was  a  French 
soldier,  stark  mad.  There  was  no  need  to  ask  the 
reason,  for  the  word  was  being  tossed  from  lip  to 
lip  by  the  horrified  watchers.  He  had  just  come 
home  to  find  his  wife  killed  outright,  and,  at  that 
moment,  his  baby  son  was  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
house  opposite,  which  was  a  mass  of  flames  and 
every  staircase  down. 

As  the  Gendarmes  on  duty  had  not  arrived,  con- 
fusion reigned;  but  representatives  of  one  organiza- 
tion were  there.  The  Red  Cross  was  on  the  spot, 
ready,  as  always,  to  render  its  varied  and  glorious 
aid  at  a  moment's  notice. 


128  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Everywhere  were  heard  shouts  and  cries,  agonized 
shrieks,  and  the  sound  of  heartbreaking  sobs. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  leave  you  and  see  if  there  is 
anything  that  I  can  do  to  help?  "  I  asked. 

"  Go,"  she  said. 

In  company  with  a  Red  Cross  worker  and  several 
civilians,  I  pushed  into  one  of  the  burning  buildings, 
and  through  the  thickening  smoke  until  in  one  room 
I  heard  the  low  moaning  of  some  one  in  great  pain. 
It  was  an  old  woman,  partly  dressed,  her  gray  locks 
matted  with  blood  flowing  from  her  cut  face,  and 
her  breasts  horribly  gashed  by  flying  glass  or  falling 
timbers.  I  carried  her  out,  surrendered  her  into 
the  charge  of  the  Red  Cross,  which  had  already 
started  a  first  aid  dressing  station  in  a  barber  shop, 
and  ran  back.  This  time  childish  cries  led  me  to  a 
room,  where  I  found  a  little  girl  not  more  than  six 
years  old.  She  was  lying  in  her  nightgown  beside 
the  wreck  of  her  cot  bed.  Both  of  her  legs  were 
broken  just  below  the  knees,  and  hung  limply  as  I 
picked  her  up  in  my  arms.  I  carried  her  out  also, 
and  this  time  found  the  Gendarmes  had  arrived  to 


Boche  Bombs  129 


take  charge  of  the  situation  —  quick,  nervous,  but 
efficient,  little  men  who,  from  much  practice,  knew 
just  what  to  do  and  how  best  to  do  it. 

Quite  willing  to  leave  the  work  of  further  rescue 
to  them,  for  I  was  now  nervously  if  not  physically 
exhausted,  I  found  my  companion,  and  we  pushed 
our  way  out  through  the  crowd,  which  had  now 
grown  to  large  proportions,  for  the  neighborhood 
was  thickly  populated  with  poor  people,  and  made 
our  way  through  alleys,  thickly  strewn  with  broken 
glass,  to  the  main  avenue. 

The  Alerte  was  still  filling  the  night  with  its 
raucous  warning,  which,  as  it  happened,  was  no 
longer  needed. 

As  quickly  as  possible  we  found  a  taxicab,  and 
were  driven  to  the  hotel,  and,  just  as  we  disem- 
barked, the  signal  sounded  to  announce  that  the  air 
invaders  had  left. 

Many  people  were  up,  and  questioned  us  eagerly 
as  to  what  had  happened ;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  to 
go  into  detail  that  night. 

I  slept  mighty  little.     The  city  outside  was  again 


130  Go,  Get  'Em! 


silent,  but  in  my  memory  there  kept  ringing  the 
shrieks  and  cries  of  strong  men  driven  mad,  of  weak 
women  and  innocent  children  shattered  and  burned. 
If  there  had  been  something  of  mere  excitement- 
craving  in  my  earlier  desire  to  fly  for  France,  it  was 
that  night  wiped  out  utterly. 

We  may  talk  about  the  historic  bravery  of  France, 
and  rightly,  for  it  exists  in  full  measure,  but  any  na- 
tion would  fight  like  supermen  after  seeing  —  not 
once,  but  again  and  again  —  what  I  saw  that  night, 
and  seeing  it  happen  to  their  own  flesh  and  blood. 
How  can  the  German  mind  be  explained  when  it  im- 
agines that  such  fiendish  atrocities  will  shatter  the 
morale  of  a  finely  bred,  highly  civilized  race?  Such 
a  people  are  not  like  animals,  to  cringe  and  flee  be- 
fore a  show  of  brutality.  France  and  England 
have  not,  and  we  shall  not,  when  our  turn  comes,  as 
I  truly  believe  that  it  will  if  the  war  continues. 

Before  I  went  to  sleep  I  made  a  silent  vow  that  — 
D.  V. —  I  would  do  my  little  best  to  avenge  a  few  of 
the  one  hundred  and  fifty  noncombatants  who  had 
been  the  victims  of  Boche  bombs  that  night. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HIGH    SPOTS 

I  HAVE  heard  people  speak  of  Paris  as  still  wearing 
a  gay  cloak  of  many  colors  over  a  heart  filled  with 
black  grief.  As  applied  to  the  real  Parisians  this  is 
not  true,  but  there  is  plenty  of  superficial  gayety 
supplied  by  the  foreign  element,  especially  the 
soldiers  of  many  nations,  on  leave  or  furlough  there. 
These  have  seen  so  much  of  horror  at  the  front  that 
they  do  not  care  to  permit  its  shadow  to  darken  the 
sunlit  moments  of  the  rest  periods,  if  they  can  help 
it.  One  may  witness  a  tragedy  like  that  of  which 
I  have  just  written,  one  night,  and  the  next  take  part 
in  a  burlesque  comedy  which  makes  the  thought  of 
war  being  at  the  very  gates  seem  impossible. 

Death  by  air  raiders  at  night  is  shocking  rather 
than  sublime ;  but  I  passed  from  it  to  the  ridiculous, 
in  one  short  step  during  my  two  day  stay  in  Paris. 

131 


132  Go,  Get  'Em! 


It  happened  in  the  Folics  Bcrgeres,  which  —  as 
every  one  who  has  "done"  Paris  knows  —  is  an 
immense  and  extremely  popular  theater  and  dance 
hall  combined,  a  conventional  stage  and  pit  within, 
and  outside  this,  a  foyer,  or  promenade,  with  a 
wonderful  fountain  in  its  center,  and  an  orchestra 
in  an  overhanging  balcony.  On  all  sides  are  tables 
for  those  who  prefer  to  sit  at  their  ease  and  eat, 
drink  and  be  merry,  while  listening  to  the  orchestra's 
music,  rather  than  to  take  in  the  show. 

A  party  of  flyers,  of  whom  I  was  one,  entered  it 
that  night  and  purchased  promenade  tickets  which 
also  entitled  us  to  enter  the  theater  and  watch  the 
show.  Not  wanting  to  miss  anything,  we  took  it  in 
before  sampling  the  pleasures  offered  without. 

The  show  itself  was  not  particularly  impressive  — 
all  that  I  remember  of  it  is  that  it  was  some  sort  of 
a  burlesque  on  a  tragic  historical  happening,  scream- 
ingly funny  at  the  start,  apparently,  judging  from 
the  general  hilarity,  but  ending  as  a  melodrama. 
That  is,  it  was  intended  to  end  thus,  but  just  when 
Marie  Antoinette  —  or  whoever  the  fair  heroine  was 


High  Spots  133 


supposed  to  be  —  had  laid  her  head,  crowned  with 
artificial  curls,  on  the  guillotine,  preparatory  to  its 
being  severed  from  her  swanlike  neck  by  a  very  real- 
istic knife,  a  wild  western  warwhoop  rang  out 
through  the  tensely  still  audience.  Down  the  center 
aisle,  with  long,  lunging  strides,  went  a  big,  stunning 
figure  of  athletic  build  and  clad  in  French  blue,  but 
obviously  an  American. 

We  all  knew  him  well  enough,  for  he  was  one  of 
the  wealthiest  and  most  genuinely  popular-on-his- 
own  account  men  of  the  corps,  a  man  who  was  a 
super-flyer  and  had  already  done  wonderful  work  at 
the  front.  Here  I  shall  inflict  upon  him  the  distinc- 
tive name  of  John  Smith,  because  —  as  real  authors 
say  —  that  was  not  his  name  at  all.  With  a  grace- 
ful jump,  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  deer  or  a 
champion  high  hurdler,  Smith  cleared  the  heads  of 
the  orchestra;  nor  did  he  pause  until  he  had  per- 
formed a  male  impersonation  of  Pocahontas  over 
the  prostrate  figure  of  the  doomed  heroine. 

The  knife  did  not  fall,  so  he  picked  her  up  bodily 
and  set  her  squarely  upon  her  feet.  This  done,  he 


134  Go>  Get  ' 


faced  the  audience,  which  was  now  howling  with 
merriment  and  cheering  his  valiant  rescue  to  the 
echo.  Suddenly  he  "  came  to  "  enough  to  realize  the 
absurdity  of  his  position,  his  triumphant  smile 
turned  sickly,  and  he  blushed  like  a  school  girl. 
Then  two  Gendarmes,  who  together  would  scarcely 
have  made  one  of  him,  advanced  from  the  wings  and 
led  him  gently  out  of  the  spotlight,  meanwhile  ad- 
monishing him  to  try  and  be  a  little  quieter.  Smith 
offered  no  opposition,  but  went  peacefully,  and  we 
thought  that  we  had  seen  and  heard  the  last  of  him 
for  that  night.  But  it  seemed  that  he  had  only  been 
warming  up  for  the  evening's  entertainment. 

The  act  ended  after  a  fashion,  and  everybody,  in- 
cluding myself,  went  out  to  enjoy  the  promenade 
and  concert.  There  was  a  babel  of  laughing 
voices  for  a  little  while,  then  above  it  rang  out  the 
familiar  war  whoop,  and  through  the  crowd  of 
merrymakers  burst  Smith.  He  made  for  the  foun- 
tain, jumped  lightly  onto  its  base  and  poised  like 
Venus,  arrayed  in  a  handsome  French  uniform  be- 
decked with  the  medals  of  a  hero.  Then,  in  he  went 


High  Spots  135 


head-first,  and,  coming  up,  proceeded  to  give  a  free 
demonstration  of  all  the  latest  fancy  strokes,  a  la 
Annette  Kellermann,  with  explanations. 

His  old  friends,  the  Gendarmes,  appeared  again 
and  started  to  remove  him;  but  each  time  that  one 
approached  to  the  attack  he  was  met  with  a  watery 
barrage.  Frenchmen  are  apparently  not  keen  for 
water,  so  Smith  successfully  defended  his  position 
until  he  was  tired  of  the  game,  and  decided  to  come 
out  of  his  own  accord. 

When  he  did  emerge  his  uniform  was  glistening 
like  silk  and  clinging  to  him  like  tights.  The  Gen- 
darmes marched  him  off  in  belated  triumph  to  let 
him  dry  out  and  sober  up,  but  Sinclair  and  I  stepped 
in  and  supplied  bail  and  took  him  under  our  charge. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LUNEVILLE 

DECEMBER  third  I  opened  the  door  to  the  new  life 
which  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  so  many  months 
before.  I  was  at  last  an  Aviateur  Pilote  Americain, 
and  a  Soldier  of  France  in  the  newest  branch  of  the 
old,  honorable  and  world-famous  Foreign  Legion 
that  had,  for  generations  back,  made  history  in  every 
war  in  which  France  has  engaged.  And  I  was  on 
the  threshold  of  taking  a  personal  part  in  the  great- 
est war  that  has  ever  occurred  in  human  history. 

Escadrille  N.  87,  I  was  advised,  was  located  at 
Luneville,  in  Lorraine,  two  stations  beyond  Nancy, 
and  so  some  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles  south  of 
Paris.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  this  particular  sector 
was  comparatively  inactive  at  that  time ;  but  this  fact 
did  not  trouble  me,  even  though  I  wanted  to  get 
quickly  into  action,  for  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion 

136 


Luneville  137 


that  the  more  experience  I  could  obtain  before  things 
warmed  up  with  the  coming  of  Spring,  the  better 
fitted  I  should  be  to  play  my  part  in  the  "  warming." 

I  left  Paris  at  seven-thirty  in  the  morning  to  make 
the  fourteen-hour  trip  on  a  slow  train  packed  with 
soldiers  returning  to  the  front.  As  I  was  pretty 
well  tired  out  after  my  long  training,  capped  by  my 
two  night  experiences,  I  slept  almost  all  the  way  to 
Nancy,  which  we  reached  at  five-thirty  in  the  after- 
noon. A  half  hour  for  supper  at  a  little  restaurant 
that  I  was  to  visit  again,  and  I  boarded  another 
train  for  the  last  lap  of  my  journey  to  the  fighting 
front,  and  arrived  at  my  destination  at  half  past 
seven. 

I  had  thought  Paris  dark.  What,  then,  was  my 
feeling  as  I  stepped  from  the  train  at  Luneville. 
It  was  only  ten  miles  back  of  the  first  line  trenches, 
and  was,  of  course,  emptied  of  all  civilians  except 
those  connected  with  caring  for  the  army.  The 
houses  and  streets  were  all  in  darkness  which  would 
have  made  Egypt's  night  broad  daylight  by  com- 
parison, for  every  door  and  window  was  screened, 


138  Go,  Get  'Em! 


and  even  the  autos  which  went  through  the  pocket- 
black  streets,  "  hell  bent  for  election,"  carried  no 
lights. 

Captain  Azfre  of  my  new  Escadrille,  a  dark,  hand- 
some little  Frenchman,  who  wore  the  usual  pointed 
black  mustache,  was  on  hand  to  greet  me  at  the  sta- 
tion, having  been  notified  of  my  impending  arrival, 
and,  after  we  had  shaken  hands,  he  guided  me 
through  the  inkiness  to  my  new  home.  I  could  not, 
naturally,  distinguish  anything  about  it  as  we  en- 
tered; but,  as  I  came  to  know  it  later,  it  proved  a 
homelike,  attractive  place,  utterly  different  from  the 
rude  barracks  which  had  been  my  portion  for  many 
months. 

Before  the  war  had  desolated  the  land,  our 
chateau  had  been  the  domicile  of  a  French  count 
who,  with  his  family,  was  now  somewhere  in  the 
south  of  France.  It  was  a  typical  little  chateau, 
square,  built  of  stone  blocks,  and  three  stories  high. 
A  ten-foot  high  stone  wall,  with  a  now  rusty  iron 
gate  in  the  center,  surrounded  it,  fronting  a  broad 
street  with  pebble  sidewalks  and  lined  with  old  trees. 


Luneville  139 


Within  the  gate  was  a  narrow  pebble  path  which 
ran  up  to  the  big  front  door,  and  then  branched  off 
and  went  around  one  side  of  the  house  to  the 
kitchen.  On  the  right  of  this,  in  the  front  lawn, 
now,  of  course,  covered  with  snow,  was  a  little  foun- 
tain, and  on  the  left  was  a  big  tree,  beneath  which 
we  placed  small  tables  and  chairs  and  did  our  loung- 
ing when  Spring  came,  for  the  house  boasted  no 
piazza.  The  nearest  approach  to  such  a  thing  were 
the  diminutive  iron  balconies  outside  each  of  the 
tall,  Venetian  windows. 

Feeling  something  like  a  new  boy  at  school,  I  fol- 
lowed Captain  Azire  into  the  hallway,  and  to  a  big 
room,  on  the  right,  which  served  the  occupants  as  a 
combination  living-  and  dining-room.  It  was  high- 
studded,  and  the  light  gray  walls  were  bare  of  the 
family  pictures  which  had  once  adorned  them,  and 
which  were  now  —  in  company  with  the  other  valu- 
ables of  the  household — <  safely  locked  in  a  room 
across  the  hall.  In  the  center  was  a  big  table  capa- 
ble of  seating  fifteen,  and  an  upright  piano.  A 
man  in  the  uniform  of  a  sergeant  of  aviation  was 


140  Go,  Get  'Em! 


drumming  away  at  it  as  we  entered,  and  a  dozen  or 
so  more  were  lounging  about,  smoking,  chatting  and 
playing  cards. 

My  comrades  to  be  were  all  French,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  Russian  (three  other  Americans 
joined  us  for  a  short  time,  later),  and  I  shook  hands 
heartily  with  them  as  the  Captain  presented  me  to 
each  in  turn. 

After  the  formalities  were  ended  one  of  them 
took  me  to  my  room  upstairs,  a  plain  but  good- 
sized  chamber  with  one  big  mahogany  four-poster 
and  two  small  cot  beds,  a  large  wardrobe,  which  took 
the  place  of  a  closet,  a  chest  of  drawers,  commode, 
three  chairs  and  a  varied  assortment  of  trunks  and 
bags  on  the  floor.  Of  course,  there  were  no  modern 
conveniences,  but  it  seemed  like  a  palace  room  after 
what  I  had  been  living  in. 

By  this  time  "  dinner  was  served,"  and  I  went 
down  to  an  excellent  meal  of  steak,  potatoes  and 
beer,  during  which  my  difficulties  with  the  French 
language  were  the  cause  of  much  merriment  and 
laughter  at  my  expense. 


Luneville  141 


As  I  was  still  somewhat  weary,  and  a  bit  lonesome 
among  all  those  strange  faces,  I  went  early  to  my 
room.  Outside  it  was  now  snowing  heavily,  turning 
the  darkness  to  faint  gray,  and  the  shut-in  feeling, 
which  this  produced,  increased  my  loneliness.  For 
the  moment,  thoughts  of  home  eclipsed  my  former 
delight  over  the  achievement  of  my  ambition's  goal, 
and  it  was  in  this  mood  that  I  went  to  sleep.  Out- 
side everything  was  as  quiet  as  a  country  church- 
yard that  night,  although  more  often  than  not,  there- 
after, I  was  to  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  incessant 
sound  of  the  distant  bombardment,  the  reverberant 
booming  of  the  big-caliber  guns,  the  dull  crunch  of 
the  hand  grenades,  and  even  the  intermittent  sharp 
rattle  of  the  rapid-fire  guns  and  rifles  which  com- 
bined to  form  a  steady  concussion  that  kept  the 
old  house  rattling,  and  made  my  bed  tremble  con- 
stantly. 

At  daybreak  I  was  awakened  to  a  sense  of  un- 
reality and  strange  surroundings.  Then,  as  the  haze 
of  sleep  passed  from  my  brain,  came  the  thought  that 
I  was  actually  at  the  front  and  about  to  begin  my 


142  Go,  Get  'Em! 


military  career  in  earnest.  I  jumped  from  my  nar- 
row cot  into  the  chilly  air  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  It  faced  the  east,  and  my  gaze  traveled 
over  a  snowclad,  rolling  countryside  with  here  and 
there  the  shattered  roof  of  an  isolated  farmhouse 
appearing.  None  of  the  no-less  shattered  villages 
nearer  the  front  were  visible,  however,  nor  were  the 
opposing  lines  of  trenches  —  five  miles  distant. 

It  was  only  half  light,  but  the  weather  had  cleared 
during  the  night,  and,  although  the  snow  lay  thick 
upon  the  fields,  the  wintry  air  was  still,  and  I  knew 
that  I  might  reasonably  expect  in  a  very  short  time 
to  make  my  initial  flight  under  real  war  conditions. 
With  eagerness  to  be  up  and  doing,  I  dressed  and 
went  downstairs,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  at  the 
front  door,  ready  to  accompany  my  new  comrades  to 
the  aviation  piste  which  lay  just  across  the  street.  It 
was  a  huge,  unfenced  field  which  took  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  circle  in  an  automobile,  and  was  bor- 
dered by  big  gray  hangars,  each  of  which  held  ten 
machines. 

We  breakfasted  on  chocolate  and  toast  at  the  can- 


Luneville  143 


teen,  and  then  I  reported  myself  ready  for  duty  to 
Captain  Azire.  He  called  for  and  introduced  Fran- 
cois, my  mechanic  —  a  short  and  slender  little  fel- 
low —  and  then  assigned  my  new  machine  to  me  — 
a  Nieuport.  It  was  a  beauty,  wonderfully  camou- 
flaged on  the  top  of  its  upper  planes  and  fuselage 
with  blotches  of  green  and  reddish  brown  so  that, 
when  looked  at  from  above,  it  would  blend  into  the 
earth  beneath.  The  art  of  camouflaging  airplanes 
has  kept  pace  with  that  of  disguising  almost  every- 
thing else  used  in  warfare.  It  is,  however,  useless 
to  attempt  to  do  much  to  their  under  sides,  for, 
against  almost  any  kind  of  sky,  they  are  visible  be- 
cause of  the  shadow;  but  I  have  seen  enemy  planes 
so  cleverly  "  doctored  "  with  varying  colored  paint, 
that,  from  a  thousand  meters  above,  they  would 
pass  completely  unnoticed,  unless  the  eye  chanced  to 
catch  the  black  iron  crosses  which  are  painted  near 
the  center  of  the  Boche's  wings.  As  you  know,  the 
French  "  coquard,"  or  design,  is  concentric  circles 
of  blue,  white  and  red ;  and  the  American,  a  star  in  a 
circle. 


144  Go>  Get  ' 


My  new  chasse  plane  was  obviously  the  best  I  had 
ever  had,  and,  as  keen  to  try  its  flying  qualities  as 
any  boy  to  mount  a  new  bicycle,  I  donned  my  winter 
flying  clothes  and  climbed  aboard.  She  took  the 
air  as  easily  and  lightly  as  a  bird,  after  a  "  taxi  " 
trip  of  not  more  than  forty  feet  over  the  crusty 
snow,  and,  as  we  soared  upward  in  wide  circles,  I 
found,  to  my  great  delight,  that  she  was  not  only 
swift,  but  so  responsive  to  the  controls  that  I  could 
almost  "  breathe  "  her  around. 

Oh,  the  indescribable  joy  of  flying  a  perfect  plane  ! 

I  glanced  down,  saw  that  the  captain  was  watch- 
ing me  and,  just  like  that  boy  on  his  new  cycle,  began 
to  show  off,  with  all  the  acrobatic  stunts  which  I 
had  recently  learned  at  Pau.  Yes,  I  was  frankly 
trying  to  make  an  impression,  and,  although  I  prob- 
ably failed  to  thrill  him  with  my  exhibition,  I  at 
least  earned  a  fc  Bien  fait,  Wellman,"  when  I  finally 
descended.  From  a  veteran  flyer  that  means  more 
than  any  lavish  encomiums  from  a  layman,  and  I 
felt  a  glow  of  satisfaction.  After  all,  what  more 
need  ever  be  said  than,  "  Well  done  "  ? 


Luneville  145 


"  This  afternoon  you  will  take  your  first  trip  over 
the  lines  with  our  '  ace,'  *  Rtiamps,'  "  added  the  cap- 
tain. "  Ace,"  by  the  way,  is  spelt  "  As  "  in  French, 
and  pronounced  "  ass.'* 

I  saluted,  well  pleased,  for  I  was  already  in  love 
with  my  little  machine,  and  replied,  "  Merci,  mon 
Capitaine,  Je  suis  pret." 

I  had  already  determined  upon  a  name  for  the  first 
plane  that  should  be  really  mine,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  the  "  CELIA  " —  my  mother's  name  — 
and  when  I  announced  it,  my  mechanic  had  it 
painted  in  big  black  letters  on  the  top  of  the  fuse- 
lage, over  the  Black  Cat,  which  was  the  emblem  of 
our  Escadrillc,  and  which  adorned  the  side.  He 
also  added  the  numeral  "  I  "  which  proved  to  be 
prophetic.  I  was  to  see  four  others  bear  that  name 
with  other  numerals. 

The  evening  before  I  had  met  M.  Ruamps,  and 
had  heard  that  he  was  a  devil  in  the  air,  with  five 
Boche  planes  to  his  credit  already,  downed  during 
six  months  of  flying  at  the  front;  but  one  would 
never  have  guessed  his  record  from  his  appearance, 


146  Go,  Get  'Em! 

for  he  was  a  little  chap  with  a  smooth,  round  face 
almost  like  a  Kewpie's.  He  was  only  eighteen  years 
old. 

Poor  lad,  I  was  to  see  him  killed  by  my  side  within 
two  months. 

I  passed  the  two  hours  before  dinner-time  on  the 
field,  and  in  the  hangars,  talking  with  mechanics, 
some  of  the  pilots,  watching  others  in  the  air,  and, 
in  general,  trying  to  become  mentally  acclimated. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  dinner  hour  arrived,  I  dis- 
covered suddenly  that  I  had  lost  all  appetite,  although 
I  had  believed  myself  to  be  ravenously  hungry. 
The  anticipation  of  the  coming  flight  over  the  battle 
front  had  stolen  it  quite  away. 

Trying  to  conceal  my  nervousness  with  an  air  of 
nonchalance,  I  nibbled  at  my  food,  but  I  feasted  full 
upon  the  conversation,  which  turned  on  air  flights, 
methods  of  attack  and  the  dangers  (?)  from  anti- 
aircraft guns. 

Indeed  "  fighting "  and  femmes  furnished  the 
principal  subjects  of  conversation  morning,  noon 
and  night. 


Luneville  147 


At  two  o'clock  L  accompanied  Ruamps  to  the  field, 
got  into  my  togs,  and  then  listened  respectfully  while 
he  gave  me  my  instructions,  saying,  "  All  that  you 
have  got  to  do  is  to  follow  me  at  fifty  meters  while 
I  fly  in  figures  8  over  the  front  line  trenches. 
There'll  be  no  fighting  to-day.  I  mean  to  keep 
away  from  any  scraps,  for  I  merely  want  you  to  get 
accustomed  to  the  lay  of  the  land.  Get  the  princi- 
pal landmarks  fixed  in  your  mind." 

I  climbed  into  my  plane,  Frangois  started  the  pro- 
peller, and  we  were  off.  Ruamps'  directions  had 
sounded  simple  enough,  for  it  was  to  be  merely  the 
old  Vol  de  groupe;  but  I  quickly  discovered  that  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  adapt  my  high  speed  to  his,  and 
follow  him  at  the  prescribed  distance.  In  fact  it 
was  so  difficult  that  it  took  all  my  concentrated  atten- 
tion, and,  when  I  followed  him  down  to  the  field 
later,  I  knew  no  more  about  the  territory  over  which 
I  had  flown  and  was  going  to  fly,  than  I  had  when 
I  went  up  an  hour  and  a  half  before.  My  chagrin 
was  somewhat  diminished,  however,  when,  in  reply 
to  my  confession,  he  smiled  and  said,  "  Oh,  that  was 


148  Go,  Get  'Em! 

to  be  expected.     You  have  prospects,  and  will  no 
doubt  made  a  good  pilot  in  a  short  time." 

Before  we  reached  our  chateau,  it  had  begun  to 
snow  again,  and,  as  this  ended  the  flying,  the  others 
came  drifting  in  shortly.  By  supper  time  there  was 
an  old-fashioned  blizzard  raging  outside,  but  within 
the  dining-room  all  was  cozy,  and  Mirth  was  King. 
Indeed,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  supper 
was  more  like  an  oldtime  bachelor  dinner  than  a 
wartime  meal,  for,  although  the  food  was  simple, 
there  was  wine  and  song  a-plenty. 


CHAPTER  X 

FLYING    FOR    FRANCE 

FIVE  days  of  bad  weather  followed,  and,  with 
flying  out  of  the  question,  we  spent  the  time  in  rest 
and  recreation.  The  others  evidenced  no  regrets; 
but,  like  all  beginners,  I  was  restive  under  the  en- 
forced vacation.  Part  of  this  period  of  idleness  I 
spent  in  getting  acquainted  with  many  men  of  many 
classes  in  and  about  our  camp.  Among  them  was 
our  chef,  Jean,  a  grizzly  old  Frenchman  with  a  sad, 
weather-scarred  face.  One  day  he  told  me  his  story, 
and  as  I  heard  it  I  did  not  wonder  that  his  yellow 
teeth  were  bared  while  he  spoke. 

His  home  had  been  in  an  Alsatian  village  where, 
before  the  war,  he  had  lived  the  life  of  a  peaceful 
farmer,  with  an  old  mother,  his  wife,  two  grown-up 
sons,  a  daughter  of  eighteen  and  one  of  eight. 
When  the  conflict  began,  he  and  his  two  boys  had 

149 


ISO  Go,  Get  'Em! 


been  summoned  to  the  Colors,  and  had  joined  dif- 
ferent regiments,  leaving  the  women  folks  at  home. 
Almost  immediately  the  Hunnish  hordes  had  swept 
over  the  little  village,  and  they  still  were  holding  it. 
For  months,  filled  with  weary  waiting  and  despair, 
he  had  heard  nothing  from  home.  Then  came  a  let- 
ter from  his  wife,  smuggled  out. 

They  were  all  alive,  but  they  had  better  have  been 
dead,  he  said ;  for  they,  in  company  with  every  other 
woman  and  girl  in  the  village,  from  six  years  up  to 
old  age,  had  been  horribly  maltreated  by  the  Boche 
and  affected  with  loathsome  disease. 

When  I  left  Jean  I  was  praying  for  clear  weather 
and  a  chance  to  do  some  little  bit  toward  avenging 
him  and  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  others 
whose  case  was  like  his  in  France. 

Oh,  yes,  we  loved  the  Germans !  We  even  named 
places  after  them.  For  instance,  near  Jean's  do- 
main was  the  "  chateau  of  the  Crown  Prince  and 
Princess/*  It  was  our  piggery. 

During  this  time  of  waiting  I  received  word  from 
home  that  my  only  brother,  Arch,  had  enlisted  in  the 


Flying  for  France  151 

United  States  Aviation  service.  I  had  commenced 
by  urging  him  to  do  it,  then  shifted,  and  pleaded 
with  him  not  to,  as  I  learned  more  about  the  hard- 
ships of  training  —  in  France,  at  least  —  and  in  my 
letter,  written  upon  receipt  of  the  news,  I  handed  out 
some  brotherly  advice  which  must  have  seemed 
strange  to  him,  for  he  was  always  the  deliberate, 
careful  and  efficient  kind,  and  I  the  hajjum-scarum, 
wild  one.  Yet  it  was,  and  is,  good  advice,  and  I  am 
tempted  to  quote  from  my  letter  for  the  benefit  of 
any  reader  who  may  some  day  take  up  flying. 

"  The  training  period  is  certainly  the  most  danger- 
ous, and,  when  you  start  it,  go  easy  and  take  care 
of  yourself.  The  big  question  is  as  to  the  strength 
of  the  machines;  they  get  such  hard  usage  in  the 
schools  that  they  are  liable  to  be  weak.  Keep  your 
eyes  open  all  the  time,  and  remember  that  you  are 
not  a  '  flyer '  until  you  are  actually  ready  for  the 
front.  I  went  through  school  fast ;  but  my  accidents 
were  all  the  result  of  thinking  that  I  was  a  flyer  at 
the  start.  They  taught  me  a  lesson. 

"  Just  plod  along  and  let  the  other  fellows  win  the 
name  of  dare-devils.  Don't  try  any  '  funny  stunts ' 
to  earn  a  reputation  for  yoursel  f  —  there  are  plenty 
of  darned  fools  to  do  that.  Just  be  the  same  con- 
servative plugger  that  you  have  always  been,  and  you 


152  Go,  Get  'Em! 

will  come  through  a-flying.  I  am  actually  sorry  for 
the  words  that  the  captain  at  school  wrote  on  my 
certificate,  *  a  born  pilot,  but  crazy.' ' 

Except  for  the  ever-present  totos  —  the  French 
for  "  cootie  " — » living  conditions  would  have  been 
almost  ideal,  and,  compared  with  the  doughboys  in 
the  trenches,  or  even  in  rest  billets  in  the  village,  we 
lived  like  princes.  To  be  sure  we  had  to  pay 
seventy  francs  every  fortnight  for  our  excellent 
dinners  and  suppers,  and  this  was  a  heavy  drain  on 
my  small  income,  although  the  rest,  who  were  all 
sergeants  or  better,  did  not  mind  it.  However, 
brother  Arch  proved  himself  a  brick,  and  sent  me  a 
monthly  gift  which  saved  the  day,  and  I  frequently 
received  bully  packages  of  candy,  cigarettes  and 
newspapers  from  my  guardian  angel  in  Paris,  Miss 
Wood. 

So  the  time  passed  pleasantly  enough,  for  the  as- 
sociation was  more  like  that  of  a  cosmopolitan  club 
than  any  army,  and  the  discipline  was  mild,  almost 
superseded  by  close  comradeship,  in  fact,  for  Cap- 
taine  Azire  and  those  under  him  in  command  mixed 


Flying  for  France  153 

with  us  frequently,  although  they  lived  in  another 
chateau. 

On  the  eleventh,  I  was  delighted  by  the  arrival  of 
Tom  Hitchcock,  and  we  immediately  agreed  to  team 
up  again,  and  made  our  plans  always  to  fly  together 
when  possible.  He  was  a  whale  of  a  pilot,  and  I 
instinctively  felt  that  I  could  trust  him  in  any  emer- 
gency, which  means  everything  to  a  fighting  flyer. 
We  looked  forward  to  working  together  in  perfect 
harmony  and  getting  results. 

Finally  came  half  fair  weather,  although  a  per- 
sistent mist  made  flying  at  the  front  dangerous,  and 
we  spent  most  of  our  time  in  the  air,  simply  keeping 
our  hand  in,  doing  the  acrobatics  which  had  become 
commonplace  enough  as  far  as  execution  went,  but 
still  brought  me  the  old  feeling  of  sporting  exhilara- 
tion. 

On  the  first  really  good  day  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
taking  Tom  on  his  maiden  trip  over  the  lines,  as 
Ruamps  had  me,  and  thereafter  we  flew  together 
as  a  part  of  the  morning  and  afternoon  patrols. 
From  that  time  until  the  day  before  Christmas  I  flew; 


154  Go>  Get  'Em! 


almost  continually;  but  without  incident,  and  saw 
few  Boche  planes,  and  these  at  a  distance.  Life 
settled  into  its  new  schedule  and  I  was  up  and  into 
my  clothes,  generally  without  shaving,  before  day- 
break, swallowed  a  hasty  breakfast  of  chocolate  and 
bread,  with  perhaps  an  egg  or  two,  at  the  canteen  in 
the  hangars,  where  it  could  be  purchased  for  a  couple 
of  francs,  was  onto  the  field  and  into  the  air  with  the 
first  flush  of  dawn,  and  patrolled  in  a  squadron  of 
six  or  eight  flyers,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
over  the  trenches  for  two  hours.  Then  came  a  lay 
off  until  noon,  which  brought  the  very  welcome  din- 
ner of  stew  or  steak,  sardines,  vegetables,  bread, 
coffee  and  fruit.  At  three  o'clock  I  was  up  again, 
and  flew  until  darkness  fell  about  five  o'clock,  when 
the  day's  work  was  done  and  we  had  the  evenings  in 
which  to  amuse  ourselves  with  "  smokes,"  cards, 
and  music. 

I  early  found  the  men  of  my  Escadrille  a  splendid 
group  of  chaps  and  sterling  fighters ;  but,  as  is  almost 
inevitably  the  case,  there  was  one  exception.  He 
was  not  French,  T  am  glad  to  say,  but  the  Russian, 


Flying  for  France  155 

and  he  was  transferred,  not  long  after  I  arrived. 
Not,  however,  until  he  had  shown  his  colors,  and  one 
of  the  others  and  I  had  gained  the  satisfaction  of 
punishing  him  a  little. 

It  was  generally  reported  that  he  had  a  habit  of 
going  up  in  a  patrol,  but  soon  breaking  away  and 
flying  to  the  rear,  to  return  after  the  customary 
period,  and  tell  of  the  fights  in  which  he  had  been 
engaged.  One  morning  another  pilot  and  I  deter- 
mined to  block  his  little  game,  and  secretly  planned 
out  a  campaign  to  follow.  We  all  went  into  the  air 
together  and  headed  for  the  front.  Soon  the  patrol 
broke  up  somewhat,  as  the  planes  sought  different 
altitudes,  and  I  saw  the  Russian  turn  and  head  west- 
ward. So  did  my  fellow  conspirator,  who  had  also 
been  keeping  an  eye  on  him,  and,  according  to  pre- 
arrangement,  I  made  sail  for  a  position  behind  him 
on  his  left  and  my  colleague  to  one  behind  and  on 
his  right.  Then  we  headed  in  on  him,  gradually 
forcing  him  back  toward  the  lines.  Whenever  he 
would  turn  to  the  left  I  speeded  straight  at  him  and 
sent  a  stream  of  shots  across  his  bows,  and  the  same 


156  Go,  Get  'Em! 


thing  occurred  when  he  turned  the  other  way,  in  an 
attempt  to  elude  us.  My  companion  was  on  the  job. 
Together  we  shepherded  him  up  and  down  the  line 
for  two  hours.  Thereafter  there  was  no  love  lost 
between  us. 

It  was  also  during  this  time  that  I  had  an  amus- 
ing, yet  humiliating  experience  on  earth.  There 
was  a  strict  rule  that  it  was  defendu  for  any  one, 
except  pilots  and  mechanics,  to  go  out  onto  our 
aviation  field  during  flying  periods,  for  the  pres- 
ence of  people  there  increased  the  dangers  of  land- 
ing. One  afternoon  one  of  our  pilots  had  "  piled 
up  "  his  plane  upon  descending,  and,  as  I  came  out 
of  a  hangar,  I  saw  a  man  in  the  long  trench  coat  of 
the  infantry  standing  out  on  the  piste,  examining  it. 

Without  a  thought,  I  ran  toward  him,  shouting, 
"  What  the  blue  blazes  do  you  mean  by  coming  out 
here?  Clear  out,  quick" — or  something  to  that 
effect,  only  a  bit  stronger,  perhaps.  Not  until  I 
was  almost  up  to  the  intruder  did  I  realize,  with  a 
wave  of  discomfiture,  that  he  was  a  French  Gen- 
eral. Fortunately  he  knew  that  he  was  in  the 


Flying  for  France  157 

wrong,  and  also  could  see  a  joke,  for  he  laughed, 
and  invited  me  to  join  him  at  the  canteen,  where  we 
pledged  each  other's  health. 

The  days  passed  with  little  to  break  the  mo- 
notony, few  enemy  planes  in  sight  and  no  serious 
fighting  below  in  the  trenches,  although  the  French- 
men holding  them  were  daily  and  nightly  getting 
sniped  at,  or  mildly  shelled,  by  the  Hun. 

Then,  on  the  twenty-fourth,  I  got  my  first  taste 
of  what  my  later  diet  was  to  be. 

The  air  was  clear,  but  bitterly  cold  that  afternoon. 
This,  however,  did  not  prevent  us  from  going  up 
as  usual,  for,  if  we  did  not,  the  Boche  certainly 
would  have.  He  was  not,  and  is  not  any  molly- 
coddle. I  went  up  in  the  usual  patrol  and  started 
a  weaving  flight  back  and  forth  over  our  three- 
mile  beat  at  fifty-five  hundred  meters.  My,  but  it 
was  bitter  up  there,  and,  after  I  had  been  at  it  for 
an  hour  and  a  half,  I  began  to  be  so  numb,  despite 
my  heavy  apparel,  that  I  concluded  that  safety  first 
required  my  return  to  earth  while  I  was  still  able 
to  control  my  machine.  I  accordingly  left  the  pa- 


158  Go,  Get  'Em! 


trol,  which  was  occupied  in  doing  nothing,  and 
started  downward. 

When  I  had  reached  an  altitude  of  three  thou- 
sand meters  on  my  downward  path  I  caught  sight 
of  a  remarkably  camouflaged  two-place  machine, 
just  below  me,  over  our  third  line  trenches,  and 
headed  for  Germany.  For  an  instant  I  thought 
that  it  was  a  French  plane,  starting  out  for  observa- 
tion work,  perhaps;  but  the  next  my  eyes  caught 
sight  of  the  two  black  crosses  which  proclaimed  its 
true  nationality,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  an  Aviatik 
—  one  type  of  Boche  plane  used  for  photograph- 
ing. For  some  reason  or  other  it  had  not  been 
observed  from  the  ground,  as  was  apparent  from 
the  complete  silence  of  our  anti-aircraft  guns. 

Mine  was  the  only  French  machine  anywhere 
near  it,  and  it  was  the  first  enemy  plane  that  I  had 
ever  seen  so  close,  or  when  I  was  alone.  On  the 
moment  I  forgot  all  about  feeling  cold,  and,  with 
every  nerve  a-tingle  and  my  blood  surging  fast,  I 
swept  down  into  an  attack,  without  pausing  for  con- 
sideration. 


Flying  for  France  159 

I  had  had  the  proper  manner  of  attacking  a  bi- 
place  machine  drummed  into  me  over  and  over,  as 
I  have  described  it.  I  knew,  in  theory,  that  di- 
rectly behind  the  pilot  sat  a  second  man  with  a 
swiveled  gun  who  could  fire  in  any  direction  except 
downward,  and  that,  of  course,  the  only  safe  method 
of  attacking  it,  was  to  dive  behind  it  at  such  a 
speed  that  that  gunner  could  not  make  an  easy 
mark  of  me,  do  a  "  Russian  Mountain,"  and  come 
up  at  the  "  blind  spot  "  from  beneath.  I  knew  this 
perfectly,  but  my  wild  excitement  made  me  forget 
all  that  I  had  learned.  There  he  was,  right  be- 
low, and  it  was  up  to  me  to  see  to  it  that  he  did  not 
get  home  from  his  little  picture-taking  trip. 

With  only  that  thought  in  my  mind,  I  dove 
straight  at  him,  thereby  giving  the  gunner  a  fair 
target  for  his  stream  of  bullets. 

By  every  rule  of  the  game  I  should  have  been 
shot  down  instantly;  but  the  luck,  of  which  I  have 
written  before,  was  with  me  in  full  measure,  for 
the  gunner  was  an  atrocious  shot  and  "  never 
touched  me/'  although  he  had  every  chance  in  the 


160  Go,  Get  'Em! 

world.  Nor  was  I  any  better.  I  fired  six  times, 
in  my  excitement  failing  to  register  a  single  hit; 
then  my  gun  jammed,  which  was  perhaps  a  good 
thing,  for  it  brought  me  to  a  realization  of  my 
foolishness  and  predicament.  I  had  just  sense 
enough  to  go  into  a  vrille  as  I  sped  past  him. 

The  pilot  of  the  Aviatik  turned  his  machine,  and 
dove  after  me,  shooting  continuously,  and  so  doing 
he  followed  me  down  for  full  two  thousand  meters. 
Then,  apparently  satisfied  that  I  was  out  of  con- 
trol and  that  he  had  ended  my  brief  career,  or  fear- 
ing to  follow  farther  directly  over  our  trenches, 
he  straightened  his  plane  out  and  scooted  for  home, 
unharmed. 

My  heart  was  in  my  mouth  when  I  thought  of 
what  I  had  escaped  by  bull  luck,  and,  as  soon  as 
I  had  seen  him  abandon  the  chase,  I,  in  turn,  righted 
my  machine  and  went  for  home  just  as  fast  as  it 
would  carry  me.  Never  had  I  been  half  so  glad 
to  see  my  own  aviation  field  below.  In  fact,  I  was 
so  overwhelmingly  happy,  when  I  went  into  my 
final  volplane  toward  terra  firma,  that  I  clean  forgot 


Flying  for  France  l6l 

another  cardinal  rule  of  flying,  and,  as  I  had  on  the 
occasion  of  my  first  time  in  the  air,  failed  to  pull 
my  control  stick  back  and  so  bring  the  machine 
parallel  to  the  ground  at  the  moment  of  landing, 
with  the  entirely  natural  result  that  I  plunged  into 
it  nose  first. 

Six  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  delicate  mechan- 
ism was  smashed  to  splinters,  and  I  did  not  care  a 
rap.  I  was  too  filled  with  sheer  joy  to  be  safe  on 
earth  again  for  that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  my 
first  fight  and  first  big  aerial  experience  had  ended 
in  ignominious  failure. 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  "MERRY  CHRISTMAS,"  AND  MY  FIRST  BOCHE 

CHRISTMAS  morning  dawned  very  cold,  but  as 
clear  as  a  bell,  and,  with  the  snow  sparkling  on  the 
ground  and  roofs  of  the  houses,  Luneville  looked 
for  all  the  world  like  a  picture-book  illustration  of 
a  quaintly  foreign  scene.  But  the  calm  beauty  of 
it,  instead  of  delighting  me,  made  me  feel  intensely 
blue  and  dejected.  Although  I  was  a  mighty  long 
way  from  home,  and  the  scene  appeared  utterly 
different  from  any  that  I  had  ever  viewed  in  New 
England,  I  could  not  help  recalling  other  Christ- 
mases  when  I  was  in  the  midst  of  my  family  and 
friends,  laughter,  gifts,  holly  —  and  mistletoe.  A 
few  gifts  had  come,  to  be  sure,  and  it  was  not  the 
fault  of  my  dear  ones  that  the  major  portion  came 
three  months  late,  but  the  spirit  of  Yuletide  was 
utterly  lacking.  I  went  downstairs  and  joined  my 

162 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  163 

comrades.  There  were  no  "  Merry  Christmas " 
greetings,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  get  out  of 
doors,  through  the  simple  breakfast,  and  to  work. 

There  was  to  be  no  recreation  for  us,  as  Cap- 
tain Azire  speedily  made  known.  War  knows  no 
holy  —  or  holidays,  and  the  schedule  for  the  morn- 
ing called  us  to  act  as  escort  for  a  huge  Letord  — 
a  three-place  machine  used  in  taking  photographs 
—  on  a  trip  twenty-five  miles  into  German  terri- 
tory. 

Our  destination  was  the  town  of  Saarburg,  or 
rather  a  spot  far  up  in  the  air  over  that  town,  for 
troops  had  been  reported  coming  up  to  the  front 
from  it,  and  it  was  thought  desirable  to  obtain  some 
photographic  information  concerning  the  lay  of 
the  land,  and  what  was  going  on. 

The  trip  was  not  to  take  place  until  two  o'clock, 
so  we  had  several  hours  on  our  hands.  There  was 
no  churchgoing  that  morning,  however.  Instead, 
the  majority  of  us  put  in  the  time  at  the  card 
table. 

At  one  o'clock  came  our  Christmas  dinner,  not 


164  Go,  Get  'Em! 


of  goose  or  turkey  with  the  "  fixin's  " ;  but  steak 
and  potatoes.  Soon  after  it  I  arrayed  myself  for 
the  afternoon's  work.  My  costume  consisted  of 
three  suits  of  underwear,  three  pairs  of  woolen 
socks  and  a  heavy  winter  uniform.  When  I  got 
out  to  the  hangars  this  was  supplemented  by  my  fur- 
lined  flying  combination  and  helmet,  fur-lined  boots, 
a  sweater,  and  a  muffler  wrapped  about  my  neck, 
ears  and  forehead.  You  can  imagine  what  a  styl- 
ish figure  I  cut.  Santa  Claus  was  never  arrayed 
like  unto  me,  and  it  took  two  of  the  mechanics  to 
lift  me  bodily  into  my  machine  and  strap  me  in 
place. 

But  this  was  not  all  of  my  paraphernalia.  My 
combination  suit  boasted  six  pockets,  and  in  each 
of  them  I  put  a  modern  contrivance,  made  in  China, 
which  served  the  purpose  of  the  old-fashioned 
warming-pan.  It  was  a  small  box,  covered  on  the 
outside  with  velvet,  and  containing  a  slab  of  char- 
coal which  was  ignited  at  the  last  moment  by  a 
fuse  at  one  end,  and  was  planned  to  glow  for  some 
time. 


MY    WINTER    COSTUME 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  165 

The  six  escorting  Nieuports  were  lined  up,  and 
followed  the  unwieldy  Letord  as  it  "  taxied  "  across 
the  snowy  field  and  soared  into  the  crisp  air. 

Like  a  flock  of  Winter  birds  we  circled  over 
Luneville  until  we  had  reached  an  altitude  of  three 
thousand  meters,  and  then,  arranging  ourselves 
above,  below,  and  on  either  side  of  the  big  three- 
man  plane,  we  started  eastward,  crossed  the  front 
line  trenches  at  four  thousand  yards  up  in  the 
biting  air,  and  struck  into  Germany,  warmly  wel- 
comed as  we  sped  over  the  Boche  trenches  by  the 
"  Archies  "  or  enemy  anti-aircraft  guns.  These  are 
the  objects  of  much  ridicule  among  airmen,  for  they 
next  to  never  register  a  hit,  which  is  perhaps 
scarcely  strange  considering  the  speed  and  height 
of  their  mark;  but  they  are  useful  in  keeping  a 
hostile  plane  at  a  respectable  distance  up. 

The  explosion  of  the  shrapnel  shells  around  and 
below  me  sounded  like  a  dull  grunt  emitted  by  a 
monstrous  pig  —  a  sort  of  a  "  wruf  f f,"  and  once 
/  actually  saw  one  pass  in  front  of  my  plane  —  a 
small  streak  of  black  lightning,  if  I  can  use  the 


1 66  Go,  Get  'Em! 


expression  — to  burst  in  black  smoke  well  above. 
The  Boche  below  were  very  generous,  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  compliments  of  the  season  from 
the  Kaiser.  None  of  his  gifts  reached  us,  but 
it  was  scarcely  pleasant  to  have  them  bursting  so 
near,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  none  of  us  wished 
him  a  "  Merry  Christmas,  and  Happy  New  Year," 
that  day. 

The  flight  to  Saarburg,  and  the  business  of  shoot- 
ing it  up  with  the  camera  while  we  circled  over- 
head at  five  thousand  meters,  took  nearly  an  hour, 
and  there  was  nothing  pleasant  in  the  experience. 
If  any  of  you  have  ever  been  for  any  length  of 
time  on  the  top  of  a  three-mile-high  mountain  in 
mid  winter,  you  can  guess  something  of  what  I 
mean,  then  add  to  that  the  necessity  of  keeping 
continually  in  flight,  and  maintaining  a  lookout  for 
possible  enemies  bent  upon  your  destruction. 

At  length  the  Letord  turned,  and  headed  for 
home,  its  work  completed,  and  I,  for  one,  was  not 
at  all  loath  to  do  likewise,  especially  as  the  weather 
had  already  begun  to  change  rapidly  for  the  worse. 


A  "  Merry  Christmas "  167 

A  nasty  cross  wind  came  in  sharp  gusts  that  kept 
me  busy  with  my  control  stick  to  counteract  them 
and,  as  we  flew  Franceward,  the  sky  kept  growing 
momentarily  blacker  and  blacker,  while  dark,  omi- 
nous-looking clouds  rolled  up  on  the  horizon.  I 
was  both  worried  and  miserable,  for,  despite  my 
many  thicknesses  of  raiment,  I  was  getting  un- 
comfortably cold,  and  I  had  a  strong  suspicion  that 
my  nose  was  frozen. 

There  is  a  cheerful  saying  that  there  is  nothing 
so  bad  that  it  cannot  be  worse,  and  last  Christmas 
afternoon  proved  the  truth  of  it  to  me.  Before 
we  had  gone  half  way  on  the  back  trail,  snow  began 
to  fall.  The  snow,  hail  and  wind  increased  until 
it  became  half  a  blizzard.  The  icy  particles  paid 
no  attention  whatever  to  my  glass  windshield,  but 
leaped  it  and  bit  into  my  numbed  face  like  innumer- 
able needles.  One  by  one  my  companions  disap- 
peared from  view,  and  I  was  left  alone  over  Ger- 
many in  the  air  which  was  so  thick  with  flying 
flakes  that  I  could  not  see  the  front  of  my  plane, 
and  only  the  faintest  possible  outline  of  the  Vosges 


168  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Mountains  far  to  my  left  told  me  that  I  was  still 
headed  in  the  right  direction. 

Flying  a  tiny  Nieuport  under  such  conditions  is 
no  joke.  Being  in  a  small  boat  in  a  blizzard  is  a 
cinch  compared  with  it,  for  no  matter  how  the 
waves  buffet  your  craft  about  they  also  sustain  it, 
whereas  in  an  airplane  the  pilot  has  continually  to 
be  on  the  jump  to  counteract  a  slap  by  an  air  wave 
with  his  side  controls,  and  if  the  motor,  whose 
power  sustains  him,  goes  wrong  —  good-night ! 

In  the  hope  that  the  going  might  improve  if  I 
sought  a  lower  altitude,  and,  basing  my  act  on  the 
thought  that  it  could  not  be  much  worse,  I  piqued 
down  to  five  hundred  meters.  It  was  worse,  the 
air  was  more  broken  up  and  gusty,  and  the  flying 
correspondingly  more  difficult. 

After  what  may  have  been  ten  minutes  of  this 
sort  of  thing,  I  made  out  the  formation  of  the 
forest  of  Parroy  —  which  runs  some  three  miles 
into  French  territory  and  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
into  German,  crossing  the  two  front  lines  —  be- 
neath me,  in  spite  of  its  natural  camouflage.  When 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  169 

we  had  left  it  had  been  black;  now  it  was  almost 
as  white  as  the  ground  about  it.  This  gave  me  the 
direction  of  our  field,  and,  after  a  few  minutes 
more  of  Dante's  seventh  circle  in  Hades,  I  arrived 
over  our  piece  d' aviation.  Not,  however,  until  to 
my  other  worries  had  been  added  that  of  engine 
trouble.  It  sounded  desperately  uncertain  whether 
or  not  it  could  hold  out,  and  I  kept  up  a  steady 
flow  of  words  addressed  to  it,  coaxing  and  encour- 
aging as  one  might  a  faithful  old  horse  who  was 
dog-tired  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  lying  down 
by  the  roadside.  To  be  sure,  /  could  not  hear  my 
words  above  the  roar  of  the  motor,  but  they  —  or 
something  —  had  the  desired  effect.  Out  of  the 
enveloping  gray  blanket  below  appeared  a  flare 
which  I  did  not  understand,  but  it  attracted  me  as 
a  beacon  light  attracts  seagulls  in  a  storm.  It  was, 
in  fact,  gasoline  spread  on  the  snow,  and  lighted 
to  direct  the  course  of  the  returning  voyagers. 

At  length  I  landed.  Mine  was  not  an  orthodox 
landing,  however.  Far  from  it!  The  wind  had 
now  attained  so  high  a  velocity  that  I  did  not  dare 


I  yo  Go,  Get  'Em! 

to  shut  off  my  motor  until  the  slender  wheels  of  my 
plane  were  within  a  foot  of  the  deeply  snow-covered 
ground.  One  wheel  struck  first,  sunk  into  the  snow, 
and  my  machine  went  over  and  over  in  three  com- 
plete somersaults. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  CELIA  II,  and  when  it 
stopped,  smashed  to  smithereens,  and  with  the  back 
end  of  the  fuselage  bent  around  until  it  almost 
touched  the  front,  it  was  with  a  start  of  surprise 
that  I  realized  I  was  still  alive.  Undoing  my  body 
belt,  I  slowly  crawled  out  of  the  wreckage.  Others 
were  there  to  assist  me ;  but,  to  their  astonishment, 
I  shook  off  their  helping  hands,  and,  in  utter  dis- 
gust, waddled  home. 

I  had  been  right  about  my  nose.  It  was  frozen, 
and  for  more  than  a  week  it  looked  like  old  John 
Bunny's. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  a  perfect  Christmas 
Day! 

A  new  uniform  which  was  made  possible  by 
presents  from  home,  and  which  I  ordered  the  next 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  171 

day,  partly  recompensed  me  for  my  unlovely  ap- 
pearance during  the  days  that  followed  until  my 
nose  returned  to  normal. 

For  nearly  three  weeks  nothing  of  moment  oc- 
curred, either  on  the  ground  or  in  the  air.  We 
performed  our  patrol  duty  twice  daily,  except  when 
the  weather  was  impossible,  and  had  occasional 
brushes  with  the  Boche,  but  nothing  more. 

Then  came  the  nineteenth  of  January,  and  the 
first  BIG  day  on  my  flying  calendar. 

You  who  read  this  can  look  back  to  something 
keenly  anticipated  and  finally  achieved,  and  remem- 
ber the  thrill  of  supreme  delight  that  followed  the 
achievement;  but  I  tell  you  that,  unless  you  have 
downed  an  enemy's  machine  in  a  fair  fight  in  mid- 
air, you  don't  know  what  delirious  joy  really  is. 

I  have  taken  part  in  many  kinds  of  sport,  but 
not  one  of  the  others  can  for  an  instant  compare 
with  flying  as  a  sensation  producer,  and,  when  to 
that  is  added  the  mad  exultation  of  a  contest  that 
transcends  all  others,  and  victory  crowns  it,  well  — 
the  feeling  simply  can't  be  put  in  words. 


172  Go,  Get  'Em! 

Oddly  enough,  my  first  successful  fight  grew  out 
of  another  escort  trip  with  the  Lctord  which,  on 
Christmas  Day,  had  led  me  into  so  much  trouble. 
This  time,  however,  the  weather  was  excellent,  al- 
though still  beastly  cold.  Again  we  went  over  the 
German  lines,  the  big  machine  finished  its  ap- 
pointed task,  and  headed  home,  without  encoun- 
tering trouble.  It  was  well  on  its  way  toward 
France,  surrounded  by  six  or  eight  of  us  little  fel- 
lows doing  police  duty  around  it,  when,  looking 
ahead,  I  saw  a  series  of  black  and  white  puffs  sud- 
denly appear  out  of  nothing  in  the  blue  sky  some 
three  miles  above  Luneville.  I  knew  them  to  be 
bursting  anti-aircraft  shells,  and  fired  from  friendly 
guns  too,  for  the  Allies  use  a  mixture  of  black  and 
white  powder,  and  the  Germans  black  only.  An 
enemy's  aircraft  was  somewhere  "up  there,"  and, 
although  I  could  not  spot  it  yet,  I  broke  away  from 
our  group  and  turned  my  Nieit  port's  nose  upward 
from  the  four  thousand  meter  altitude  at  which  we 
were  then  flying,  while  the  Lctord,  and  the  rest  of 
its  escort  dove  for  the  landing  —  all,  that  is,  except 


A  "Merry  Christmas"  173 

one  which  had  a  two- foot  high  "  7  "  painted  in  red 
near  the  Cat  of  the  fuselage.  I  knew  the  plane. 
It  was  flown  by  Miot,  one  of  our  daring  French 
"  aces."  To  call  his  attention  to  the  presence  of 
a  Boche  I  gave  the  usual  signal,  moving  my  con- 
trol stick  rapidly  from  side  to  side,  and  my  little 
craft  rocked  merrily  in  its  cradle  of  air. 

Miot  answered  in  the  same  manner  to  tell  me 
that  he  was  "  on,"  and,  although  it  was  no  part 
of  our  prescribed  duty,  we  headed  straight  for  the 
scene  as  located  by  the  still  bursting  shrapnel  shells, 
he  on  the  right  and  I  on  the  left. 

Suddenly  the  gunfire  ceased.  Our  friends  on 
earth  had  seen  us  going  into  action.  For  a  moment 
I  looked  in  vain  for  the  enemy,  and  then,  a  hun- 
dred meters  below,  and  perhaps  four  times  that 
distance  ahead  of  me,  I  saw  a  cleverly  disguised 
two-place  Rumpler.  Even  a  practiced  eye  might 
well  have  been  deceived,  so  perfectly  did  it  blend 
into  the  landscape. 

I  knew  that  a  Rumpler  was  another  type  used  both 
for  bombing  and  taking  photographs,  and  decided 


174  Go>  Get  'Em! 

that  it  had  been  playing  the  same  game  as  our 
Letord. 

For  an  instant  I  took  my  eyes  off  the  quarry  to 
see  what  Miot  was  doing.  To  my  equal  astonish- 
ment and  dismay  he  had  already  started  to  dive 
directly  at  the  Boche  —  a  most  foolish  thing  to  do, 
as  I  have  already  explained.  The  observer  was 
making  the  most  of  his  unexpected  opportunity, 
and  was  banging  away  as  fast  as  his  mitrailleuse 
would  fire.  Over  the  racket  of  my  engine  I  could 
hear  its  spiteful  "  clack,  clack,  clack,"  each  of  which 
spoke  in  the  language  of  death.  It  was  but  a  sec- 
ond more  before  a  wave  of  horror  swept  over  me, 
for  I  saw  the  top  left-hand  plane  of  Miot's  machine 
crumple  up.  The  lower  plane  followed,  torn  loose 
by  the  sudden  strain,  and  down,  down,  down  he 
went,  in  a  spinning  nose  dive  with  only  one  wing 
intact  and  the  other  flapping  piteously  like  that  of 
a  mortally  wounded  bird. 

There  was  not  a  chance  in  the  world  for  poor 
Miot,  for  he  was  falling,  wholly  out  of  control, 
from  a  height  of  more  than  three  miles.  A  sweep 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  175 

of  keen  sorrow  and  a  shudder  went  through  me, 
followed  instantly  by  a  gripping  desire  to  avenge 
him. 

Action  in  the  air,  with  one's  plane  going  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-five  miles  an  hour,  occurs  much 
faster  than  it  can  be  recounted,  and,  even  as  I 
was  witnessing  the  fate  of  my  comrade,  I  was 
diving  vertically  behind  the  Boche. 

When  my  plunge  had  carried  me  past  and  a 
little  way  below  him,  I  tightened  the  muscles  of 
my  stomach,  clinched  my  jaws  and  made  the  sharp 
turn  which  I  have  described.  Then  I  turned 
my  plane's  nose  upward,  gave  her  the  juice,  and 
opened  fire  when  I  was  fifty  yards  distant.  It  was 
,  too  far  for  dead  certainty,  and  I  was  forced  to 
go  into  a  side  wing-slip  to  prevent  my  plane  from 
passing  the  Boche  in  its  upward  rush,  without 
having  the  satisfaction  of  being  sure  that  I  had 
punctured  it.  At  the  same  moment  I  saw  an- 
other plane  flash  by  me  to  attack  in  the  manner 
in  which  I  had.  This  time  my  eye  caught  sight 
of  the  number  "  10  "  beside  the  Black  Cat.  It  was 


1 76  Go,  Get  'Em! 

good  old  Tommy  Hitchcock,  come  post-haste  to  my 
aid. 

As  I  recovered  my  equilibrium  after  falling  side- 
ways a  little  distance,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the 
spectacle  just  above  and  in  front  of  me,  and  my 
heart  leaped  as  I  saw  Tom  complete  his  "  Russian 
Mountain,"  go  streaking  upward  and  cut  loose  with 
his  Vickers.  It  flashed  once,  and  the  Rumpler's 
propeller  flew  to  pieces. 

I  followed  in  his  wake,  and,  steadied  by  Tom's 
presence,  fired  more  deliberately,  and  had  the  ex- 
ultant satisfaction  of  realizing  that  this  time  I 
had  scored  a  clean  hit  and  silenced  the  enemy's 
motor.  Even  so,  he  was  not  out  of  the  fight,  for 
the  pilot  was  skillful,  and  he  had  plenty  of  altitude 
from  which  to  volplane  down  to  safety  behind  his 
own  lines,  if  we  could  not  "get"  him  first.  He 
was  wounded,  but  his  fangs  were  not  drawn,  and 
for  a  few  lively  moments  both  Tom  and  I  went 
through  every  conceivable  acrobatic  stunt  in  order 
to  keep  out  of  range  of  his  two  guns,  and  save  our 
own  hides,  without  quitting  the  combat.  On  my 


TOMMY   HITCHCOCK 


A  "  Merry  Christmas  "  177 

fourth  attack  came  the  long  postponed  victory.  My 
gunfire  killed  the  pilot  instantly,  and  the  Rumpler 
went  spinning  and  twisting  toward  the  earth  like 
a  piece  of  paper,  to  crash  into  No-Man's  Land,  a 
mass  of  tangled  wood  and  wire. 

Both  of  us  followed  it  down  to  within  twenty 
yards  of  the  ground,  made  a  quick  turn  and  sped 
for  home  at  that  altitude,  pursued  by  a  hell-hail  of 
bullets  from  the  Boche  first  line  trenches,  and  hear- 
ing the  return  fire  of  the  French  poilus  as  we  swept 
over  the  trenches. 

We  reached  the  field  together,  the  two  most 
exultant  youths  in  creation  at  that  momert,  and 
what  a  reception  was  in  store  for  us!  The  fight 
had  been  seen  from  the  Letord,  its  escort,  and  from 
the  field,  and,  as  we  taxied  to  our  hangars,  the  place 
was  swarming  with  excited  Frenchmen  who  lifted 
us  from  our  seats  and  almost  devoured  us  in  their 
delight,  for  it  was  not  only  a  clean-cut  victory,  but 
my  first.  Tom  had  previously  scored  his  first 
"  kill." 

During  the  excitement  of  an  air  fight  you  feel 


178  Go,  Get  'Em! 


capable  of  enduring  anything,  and  not  until  it  is 
all  over  do  you  realize  what  a  drain  on  the  nervous 
and  physical  vitality  it  has  been.  We  discovered 
that  we  were  quite  willing  to  be  excused  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day,  and  go  to  our  rooms  for 
a  rest ;  but  in  my  case,  at  least,  sleep  would  not  come. 
My  mind  was  torn  between  two  conflicting  thoughts, 
that  of  Miot's  death  and  my  own  good  fortune. 
It  had  been  the  "  day  of  days  "  for  me,  for  the 
"  first "  Boche  can  be  placed  to  one's  credit  only 
once  in  a  lifetime.1 

1  For  this  achievement  both  Mr.  Hitchcock  and  Mr.  Well- 
man  received  the  coveted  "  Croix  de  Guerre."  The  latter's 
citation  reads  as  follows: 

"Le  Corporal  Wellman,  William  Augustus,  No.  Mle 
12274  du  Ire  regiment  de  La  Legion  Etrangere  pilote  a 
Escadrille  N.  87. 

"Americain  engage  a  La  Legion  Etrangere  se  distingue 
comme  un  pilote  de  chasse  remarquable  par  son  ardeur  et  son 
courage.  Le  19  Janvier  abattu  un  avion  ennemi  qui  s'est 
ecrase  au  sol  pres  du  Bois  Maut  de  la  Croix." — EDITOR. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SEEING   RED 

IN  air  fighting,  it  has  become  almost  axiomatic 
that  battles  come  in  bunches,  and,  as  though  to  bear 
out  the  truth  of  this  theory,  Tom  and  I  ran  into 
one  of  our  most  sensational  experiences  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  very  next  day,  January  twentieth. 

The  weather  was  clear  and  decidedly  chilly,  with 
a  strong  wind  blowing  from  our  lines  into  Germany, 
when  we  went  up  in  a  two-man  patrol,  as  was  now 
our  custom. 

We  headed  for  Nancy,  a  few  miles  to  the  north, 
and  over  that  city  started  our  aerial  quarry,  a  two- 
place  Boche  plane  which  had  apparently  been  mak- 
ing the  most  of  the  clear  day  to  take  some  pictures, 
probably  in  preparation  for  sending  a  few  more 
German  remembrances,  in  the  shape  of  bombs  or 

J79 


180  Go,  Get  'Em! 


shells,  into  that  once  lovely  little  city,  now  so  deso- 
late. 

The  pilot  saw  us  coming  when  we  were  yet  a 
long  way  off;  but,  instead  of  waiting  to  give  us 
the  welcome  of  a  prodigal  son,  he  straightway 
headed  for  home.  Our  planes  were  speedier  than 
his,  however,  and  we  gave  each  other  the  attack- 
ing signal  and  set  sail  in  pursuit  —  a  pair  of  hawks 
after  a  fat  hen. 

It  was  a  real  running  fight  from  the  start,  and, 
before  we  had  been  engaged  in  it  many  minutes, 
we  knew  that  we  had  met  a  foeman  worthy  of  our 
combined  steel.  Time  after  time  Tom,  and  then  I, 
made  the  prescribed  attack,  and,  as  often,  the  Boche 
pilot  foiled  us  with  a  wonderful  display  of  acrobatics 
—  renversements,  wing  slips,  vrilles  and  loops  — 
and  all  the  while  both  he  and  his  gunner  were  losing 
no  opportunity  to  make  it  hot  for  us  whenever  we 
got  within  their  range.  They  were  both  veritable 
masters  of  the  art  of  flying  and  righting. 

All  the  time  we  were  hustling  into  Germany,  with 
our  normal  speed  considerably  augmented  by  the 


Seeing  Red  i8l 


strong  westerly  wind.  I  would  dive,  swoop  up, 
fire  and  miss  him,  as  he  met  my  attack  with  a  per- 
fect defense,  side-stepping  and  countering  in  the 
air  as  a  clever  boxer  does  on  the  ground.  It  was 
a  glorious  contest,  and  I  got  so  excited  that  it  was 
not  long  before  I  found  myself  yelling  at  the  top 
of  my  lungs.  This  may  have  supplied  a  vent  for 
my  overcharged  emotions;  but  it  was  exceedingly 
foolish,  since  I  could  not  hear  myself,  and  it  used  up 
valuable  energy. 

The  Huns  headed  for  their  own  aviation  base 
at  Mamy,  some  eighteen  miles  behind  their  lines, 
and  Tom  and  I  stayed  right  with  them  every  inch 
of  the  way.  Then,  as  the  realization  struck  home 
that  they  were  actually  on  the  point  of  escaping  us, 
something  must  have  snapped  in  both  of  our  brains. 
I  know  that  I  "  saw  red."  At  that  moment  there 
was  nothing  else  in  my  universe  except  that  Boche 
machine;  nothing  else  mattered,  if  I  could  only  get 
it. 

Its  pilot  planed  down  towards  his  field,  turned 
and  headed  into  the  wind  to  make  his  landing,  and 


182  Go,  Get  'Em! 

we  followed  close  on  his  tail.  The  gunner  was 
still  firing  at  us  incessantly,  but  the  pilot  jumped 
the  instant  his  machine  struck,  and  ran  for  one  of 
the  trenches  which  surrounded  the  place.  Over 
the  plane  we  flashed  at  an  altitude  of  only  twenty- 
five  yards.  At  length  we  had  it  where  it  could  not 
evade  us  further,  and  our  two-fold  stream  of  shot 
riddled  it  completely.  The  battle  madness  still 
held  me  in  its  grip,  and,  pointing  my  plane  still  fur- 
ther earthward,  I  turned  my  gun  on  the  trenches. 
The  pilot  dropped.  Then,  only  eight  yards  above 
the  ground,  and  with  motors  going  at  full  speed, 
Tom  and  I  flew  across  the  field,  shooting  at  every- 
thing in  sight,  and  pouring  our  bullets  into  the 
open  ends  of  the  hangars. 

Our  attack  had  been  so  swift,  and  so  utterly  unex- 
pected, that  the  Germans  were  paralyzed  by  it,  for, 
for  an  instant  they  stood  and  stared,  probably  open 
mouthed;  but,  when  we  pulled  up  and  headed  east- 
ward, the  fireworks  commenced.  In  a  moment 
shells  were  bursting  and  bullets  buzzing  all  around 
me  —  hornets  whose  sting  spelled  death.  Now 


Seeing  Red  183 


and  again  my  little  plane  would  wince,  and  I  knew 
that  it  had  been  hit.  Finally  one  of  the  shells  ex- 
ploded with  a  flash  of  fire  and  smoke  just  in  front 
of  my  machine,  so  near  to  it  that  the  resulting 
vacuum  pulled  me  instantly  into  a  spinning  nose 
dive.  I  shut  off  the  motor,  and  got  out  of  it  almost 
as  quickly  as  I  had  gone  in,  having  fallen  only  fifty 
meters  before  I  was  on  even  keel  and  away  again. 
Behind,  the  rifles  and  trench  mitrailleuses  were  blaz- 
ing away  with  a  vengeance,  and,  as  I  climbed  to 
fifteen  hundred  meters,  the  cannonade  swelled  to 
the  most  frightful  that  I  had  ever  heard. 

The  wind  was  now  dead  in  our  faces  and  blow- 
ing so  briskly  that  our  going  was  comparatively 
slow.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  ten  minutes  which 
it  took  to  reach  home  were  the  longest  I  had  ever 
gone  through,  for,  as  my  hot  blood  cooled  a  little, 
I  began  to  realize  that  we  had  been  playing  with 
death. 

Of  course  no  one  of  our  friends  had  seen  the 
finish  of  our  fight;  but,  even  at  the  field,  they  had 
heard  the  fierceness  of  the  firing,  and  the  manner 


184  Go,  Get  'Em! 


of  our  return  also  told  them  that  something  out 
of  the  ordinary  had  been  happening.  There  was 
a  considerable  number,  including  Captain  Azire, 
waiting  to  greet  us,  and  they  helped  me  out  of  my 
harness  and  seat.  When  I  got  my  legs  on  terra 
firma  they  were  shaking  so  from  nervous  excite- 
ment that  I  could  barely  stand,  and  had  to  lean 
against  the  fuselage  of  my  machine  for  support. 
The  captain  excitedly  demanded  that  I  tell  him  what 
had  been  going  on ;  but,  although  my  mouth  opened 
and  shut,  I  could  not  utter  a  word,  and  in  disgust 
he  turned  away  and  went  to  interrogate  Tom.  He 
was  in  no  better  shape  than  I,  having  also  yelled 
his  head  off  during  the  combat;  but,  after  a  while, 
we  managed  between  us  to  give  a  patchwork  story 
of  our  scrap,  and  Captain  Azire  told  us  that  we 
had  been  very  foolish  —  which  we  ourselves  knew ; 
that  what  we  had  done  had  been  entirely  unneces- 
sary, and  that  he  was  tickled  to  death. 

With  some  curiosity  I  examined  my  plane. 
There  were  no  less  than  eighteen  holes  of  varying 
sizes  in  the  wings  and  fuselage,  and  one  piece  of 


Seeing  Red  185 


shrapnel  had  lodged  in  the  seat.  The  CELIA  III 
was  sent  to  the  rear  for  material  repairs,  and  I 
was  promised  a  new  one  on  the  morrow. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  history's  stories  of  chiv- 
alry in  warfare  after  participating  in  the  present 
struggle.  The  Boche  has  substituted  for  it  bar- 
barism in  its  most  fiendish  form ;  but,  although  the 
forces  of  liberty  have  been  obliged  regretfully  to 
fight  fire  with  fire,  there  is  at  least  a  semblance 
of  sportsmanship  left  in  their  methods.  It  is  found 
especially  among  the  airmen,  for,  after  all,  the  ele- 
ments of  a  game  still  persist  when  the  conflict 
is  between  two  adversaries  fighting  in  the  open, 
while  it  is  utterly  lacking  where  armies  number- 
ing hundreds  of  thousands  are  hidden  in  the 
ground. 

Certain  unwritten  rules  still  apply  among  the 
Allied  air  forces,  and  it  is  not  considered  good 
sportsmanship  to  kill  a  defenseless  opponent,  unless 
it  is  incidental  to  putting  his  plane  out  of  commis- 
sion. In  the  case  of  the  attack  which  Tommy  and 
I  made  on  the  hangars,  we  were  under  fire  all  the 


186  Go,  Get  'Em! 


time,  and  it  was  a  battle,  as  well  as  a  mad  exploit ; 
but  I  shall  a  little  later  give  you  a  personal  example 
of  what  I  mean. 

Now,  it  is  only  fair  to  admit  that  in  general  the 
Boche  plays  the  game  by  the  same  rules.  Their 
airmen  represent  the  best  of  a  bad  lot,  but,  even 
among  them,  the  Hunnish  manner  of  waging  war 
crops  out  at  times. 

One  of  these  occasions  occurred  in  our  own  sec- 
tor at  about  this  time,  and  it  still  further  fanned 
the  flame  of  our  deadly  hatred  for  the  enemy. 

One  afternoon  I  was  standing  with  others  on 
our  piste,  when,  in  the  air  at  a  considerable  distance, 
we  saw  five  Boche  machines  suddenly  appear  and 
attack  a  lone  French  flyer.  They  were  on  him  like 
a  pack  of  blood-thirsty  wolves,  and  after  a  moment 
the  victim  fell  headlong,  out  of  control,  to  be  fol- 
lowed to  earth  by  all  five  of  the  enemy. 

We  made  haste  to  get  into  automobiles  and  speed 
to  the  spot  where  the  ghastly  tragedy  had  occurred. 
The  Huns  had  disappeared,  after  making  their  kill ; 
but  there,  on  the  frozen  ground,  lay  the  twisted 


Seeing  Red  187 


wreck  of  the  little  Nieuport,  and  fully  twenty  yards 
distant  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  pilot. 

"  C'est  la  guerre?  "  Yes,  as  far  as  the  fight  in 
the  air  was  concerned ;  but  it  was  apparent  that  the 
doomed  aviator  had  been  thrown  out  of  his  machine 
while  still  some  distance  in  the  air,  and  his  body 
had  been  completely  riddled  with  bullets  which 
could  only  have  been  poured  into  it  after  it  struck 
the  earth. 

You  can  imagine  the  black  rage  that  filled  us  at 
this  sight,  so  indicative  of  the  most  inexcusable 
vindictive  brutality. 

From  the  twentieth  of  January  until  the  tenth  of 
February  nothing  of  especial  interest  happened  in 
my  flying  career,  although  I  went  up  on  patrol  duty 
whenever  the  weather  permitted.  At  last,  weary- 
ing of  this  stereotyped  work,  I  asked  Captain  Azire 
on  the  latter  date  for  permission  to  pay  a  call  on 
the  enemy's  aviation  field  located  at  Hatignay,  some 
ten  or  a  dozen  miles  behind  the  lines.  The  per- 
mission was  granted. 

The  day  was  a  peculiar  one.     A  field  of  dense 


1 88  Go,  Get  'Em! 


clouds,  only  fifty  meters  thick,  was  hanging  low 
over  the  landscape  not  more  than  eight  hundred 
meters  in  the  air.  It  was,  in  fact,  just  the  sort  of 
an  afternoon  for  a  pleasant  game  of  hide  and  seek 
in  the  heavens. 

I  streaked  upward  from  our  piste  and  plunged 
into  them  from  below  like  a  diver  in  Looking  Glass 
Land,  feeling  my  plane  tremble  all  over  as  I  did 
so.  In  a  few  seconds  I  had  emerged  on  the  other 
side  into  the  clear  air  and  radiant  sunshine.  Be- 
low me  was  the  field  cloud,  fleecy  white  and  shim- 
mering like  soft  wool  on  the  back  of  a  gigantic 
lamb.  Here  and  there  in  it  appeared  irregular 
openings  through  which  the  earth  beneath  appeared 
to  view  for  an  instant,  only  to  be  hidden  instantly 
by  the  concealing  mantle. 

But,  if  I  could  see  earthward  through  these  holes, 
the  enemy  below  could  likewise  look  up  and  catch 
glimpses  of  me  as  I  passed.  I  glanced  backward 
now  and  then  to  see  the  cloudbed  broken  up  and 
the  black  puffs  of  anti-aircraft  shells  bursting  fully 
two  miles  back  of  me.  They  were  doing  their  best 


Seeing  Red  189 


to  locate  me;  but  their  best  was  a  long  way  short 
of  accomplishing  their  purpose. 

Tracing  out  my  route  by  the  aid  of  my  map,  and 
the  patches  of  country  glimpsed  momentarily 
through  the  openings,  I  finally  arrived  over  Hatig- 
nay,  and  there  found  my  hopes  realized. 

The  clouds  formed  the  shore  of  a  small  atmos- 
pheric lake,  at  the  bottom  of  which  I  could  see  a 
dozen  miniature  machines  ranged  in  perfect  order 
before  their  hangars,  nine  hundred  meters  below 
me.  Over  the  edge  I  dove,  shooting  down  for 
half  the  distance,  then  straightened  out  as  a  swim- 
mer does  under  water,  and  slid  down  to  some  two 
hundred  meters  above  the  field.  My  descent  was 
so  unexpected  and  speedy  that  the  Boche  had  no 
time  to  train  their  weapons  on  me,  and  it  was  amus- 
ing to  see  them  scurrying  to  their  trenches  like  rab- 
bits for  their  holes. 

At  this  altitude  I  flew  over  the  field,  raking  the 
trenches,  then  turned  and  treated  the  hangars  and 
the  planes  before  them  to  a  dose  of  the  same  medi- 
cine, and  escaped  scot  free. 


190  Go,  Get  'Em! 

There  was,  of  course,  no  way  of  my  knowing 
how  much  damage  I  did,  for  I  was  traveling  so 
fast ;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  it  was  considerable. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HIGH    NOTES,    AND   A   HELLISH    CHORUS 

ON  the  morning  of  February  eleventh,  Tom  and 
I  were  standing  on  our  aviation  field,  waiting  for 
the  patrol  to  be  ordered  up,  when  Captain  Azire 
summoned  us  to  him,  and  said,  "  You  two  are  the 
only  Americans  in  this  sector  and,  as  such,  are  to 
be  given  a  special  task  to  perform  to-day  —  one 
which  will,  I  think,  interest  you." 

We  looked  at  one  another  and  I  saw  on  Tom's 
face  an  expression  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Well, 
what  now?" 

The  captain  continued.  "  Your  President  has 
sent  a  message  to  Congress,  which  is  really  a  note 
addressed  to  the  German  people,  and  to-day  Ameri- 
cans from  the  different  Escadrilles  along  the  front 
are  to  have  the  unique  privilege  of  flying  over  the 

191 


192  Go,  Get  'Em! 

enemy's  country  and  dropping  copies  of  it,  printed 
in  German.  There  are  also  some  in  French,  which 
you  will  drop  on  our  captured  cities,  behind  the 
Boche  lines." 

It  promised  to  be  a  new  and  rather  interesting 
game,  we  saluted  with  alacrity,  and  asked,  "  When 
do  we  start  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  ready,"  was  the  reply,  and 
we  echoed  Admiral  Sims'  historic  words  by  say- 
ing, "  We  are  ready  now." 

Captain  Azire  bade  us  accompany  him  to  the 
Pilotage,  or  office,  where  our  curious  gaze  fell  upon 
several  big  piles  of  pamphlets,  some  —  as  he  had 
said  —  in  French ;  but  the  great  majority  in  Ger- 
man. For  an  hour  we  were  kept  busy  in  the  role 
of  bundle  boys,  rolling  them  up  into  small  parcels 
and  tying  them  lightly  with  thin  twine. 

Then,  with  two  bundles  each,  of  the  ones  ad- 
dressed to  the  French  in  bondage,  we  inaugurated 
the  first  American  aerial  post,  flying  in  different 
directions,  as  special  messengers  of  President  Wil- 
son. 


High  Notes  193 


My  delivery  route  took  me  twenty-five  miles  into 
German  territory  over  the  towns  of  Saarburg  and 
Mittersheim. 

The  day  was  ideal  for  flying,  clear  and  almost 
windless;  we  could  keep  well  out  of  range  of  the 
spiteful  "  Archies."  Their  bark  is  worse  than  their 
bite ;  but  there  was  no  use  seeking  trouble. 

It  was  great  sport.  When  it  came  to  delivering 
the  mail,  however,  I  found  out  very  shortly  that 
it  was  quite  a  little  trick  to  get  my  notes  off  suc- 
cessfully and  intact.  Simply  tossed  overboard  when 
I  was  going  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles  and  hour, 
they  developed  a  habit  of  getting  mixed  up  with  my 
wings,  or  caught  in  the  fuselage;  but  I  finally  found 
a  solution  to  the  problem.  It  was  by  doing  a  verti- 
cal virage,  tossing  the  bundles  over  when  I  was  fly- 
ing perpendicularly,  and  at  the  same  instant  kicking 
my  machine  around  violently  so  that  its  tail  would 
not  strike  them,  for  my  plane  would  have  passed 
before  they  had  dropped  a  foot. 

Frequently  the  strings  with  which  they  were  tied 
would  break,  or  slip  off,  in  mid  air,  and  the  pam- 


194  Go>  Get  'Em! 


phlets  would  go  fluttering  down  like  feathers 
dropped  from  the  wings  of  an  immense  bird. 

As  it  was  late  when  we  got  back,  and  the  weather 
had  rapidly  changed  for  the  worse,  and  become 
unfavorable  for  flying,  we  postponed  our  bombard- 
ment of  the  German  lines  until  the  morrow,  when 
we  started  off  early  with  seven  large  bundles  each. 
Perhaps  we  may  be  forgiven  for  our  "Use  ma- 
jeste "  in  hoping  that  the  Boche  would  all  be 
"  gassed  "  to  death  by  our  missives. 

Although  we  went  up  to  work  early,  it  was  a 
"  bad  "  day,  very  gray,  with  heavy,  low-hanging 
clouds  scarcely  two  hundred  yards  above  the  ground 
and  the  wind  was  treacherous.  Still,  we  had  to 
fly  low  any  way,  in  order  to  make  certain  that  the 
pamphlets  reached  their  objective  points  in  the  first 
line  trenches,  so  we  "  went  to  it."  This  time  the 
trip,  unlike  that  of  the  prior  day,  was  replete  with 
excitement  from  start  to  finish.  A  French  plane 
cannot  fly  boldly  only  a  hundred  yards  above  a 
Boche  first  line  trench  without  "  starting  something. " 
From  the  moment  that  we  swung  into  line  above 


High  Notes  195 


the  Huns  they  began  banging  merrily  away  at  us 
with  their  rifles  and  machine  guns  in  the  trenches. 
Even  above  the  roar  of  my  engine  I  could  hear  the 
crackle  of  running  fire  beneath  me,  punctuated  with 
the  whang  of  the  trench  mitrailleuses,  and  the  occa- 
sional droning  whine  of  a  bullet  as  it  passed  so  near 
that  its  hymn  of  hate  was  audible  above  all  that  mad 
racket.  It  seems  incredible  to  me,  now,  that  we 
could  both  have  flown  at  that  low  altitude  for  sev- 
eral miles  through  an  inverted  hailstorm  of  bullets 
and  shrapnel,  doing  acrobatic  stunts  meanwhile,  and 
escape  scot  free,  but  we  did  it.  Our  machines  must 
have  been  simply  covered  with  invisible  horseshoes. 

It  was  amusing  to  look  back  and  see  the  men  be- 
low and  behind  us  dropping  their  rifles  and  scram- 
bling for  such  of  our  messages  as  fell  square  in  the 
trench. 

Tom  finished  his  task  a  few  minutes  before  I 
did  mine,  and,  with  a  wave  of  triumph,  headed  for 
home,  expecting  me  to  follow.  I  hurried  to  dump 
overboard  the  balance  of  my  freight;  but,  just  as 
I  was  on  the  point  of  dropping  the  last  bundle,  I 


196  Go,  Get  'Em! 


became  possessed  of  an  insane  desire  to  "  show  off  " 
—  it  was  that,  and  nothing  else.  So,  instead  of 
performing  my  customary  virago,  I  sped  upward  un- 
til the  nose  of  my  plane  reached  the  low  clouds, 
turned,  dove  vertically,  and,  when  altogether  too 
near  the  earth  for  safety,  did  a  renversement  and 
shot  up  again  in  a  loop.  I  had  just  reached  the 
top  of  my  aerial  turn,  was  flying  head  downward, 
and  on  the  point  of  cutting  off  my  motor,  when 
it  suddenly  quit  of  its  own  accord.  The  magneto 
had  broken.  If  I  had  been  a  thousand  meters  up 
instead  of  a  hundred,  the  accident  would  not  have 
worried  me  excessively.  As  it  was,  I  realized  that 
my  foolishness  had  put  me  into  as  tight  a  hole  as 
ever  I  had  been  in  my  life.  There  was  no  time  to 
spend  in  moralizing.  I  had  to  act,  and  act  in- 
stantly, for  being  upside  down  in  an  airplane  with- 
out motive  power,  only  a  hundred  yards  above  the 
ground  and  directly  over  a  trench  full  of  busy 
Boche,  is  not  a  thing  of  pleasure  and  a  joy  for- 
ever. 

I  did  the  only  possible  thing,  a  side  wing  slip, 


High  Notes  197 


and  came  to  an  even  keel  not  sixty  yards  from  earth. 
Bullets  were  now  buzzing  busily  around  me,  and  for 
an  instant  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  the  direc- 
tion in  which  my  plane  was  heading,  I  had  per- 
formed my  combination  stunt  so  hurriedly.  My 
motor  was  dead;  but,  as  I  coasted  downward,  I 
heard  the  firing  behind  me  and  knew  that  I  was 
still  lucky,  and  going  westward.  If  I  had  not  been, 
I  should  probably  have  "  Gone  West "  in  another, 
and  more  sinister  sense,  that  morning. 

My  low  volplane  carried  me  safely  over  No- 
Man's  Land,  although  all  the  time  I  was  instinc- 
tively urging  my  plane  forward  with  my  body  and 
wondering  if  I  would  make  it,  or  again  pay  a  visit 
to  barbed  wire  entanglements.  In  a  few  seconds 
I  was  safely  over  the  first  line  French  trenches, 
which  I  had  cleared  by  a  bare  few  yards,  the  poilus 
beneath  shouting  as  I  passed  over  their  heads,  and 
had  made  an  easy  landing  in  a  shell-hole  whose 
crater  was  big  enough  to  accommodate  my  machine 
comfortably. 

While  mentally  congiatulating  myself  on  my  es- 


198  Go,  Get  'Em! 


cape,  and  saying  "  You  can't  beat  a  fool  for  luck," 
I  leisurely  undid  my  harness  and  began  to  gather 
up  my  compass,  maps  and  a  few  personal  things, 
preparatory  to  evacuating,  when  I  heard  the  excited 
voices  of  four  or  five  French  soldiers  calling  wildly 
to  me  from  a  nearby  communication  trench.  Since 
I  could  still  understand  French  only  when  it  was 
spoken  slowly,  and  with  clear  enunciation,  their 
words  meant  nothing  to  me;  but,  from  the  tone 
in  which  they  were  spoken,  I  gained  the  impression 
that  something  of  interest  was  up,  and  that  it  was 
somehow  connected  with  me.  It  was.  I  had  sat  in 
my  plane  only  a  second  or  two  more,  wondering 
what  was  coming  off,  when  I  heard  the  discordant 
wheeeeEEEE  of  a  shell.  It  passed  right  over  me, 
landed  some  twenty-five  yards  beyond,  and  exploded 
with  an  earsplitting  roar  and  an  eruption  of  dirt, 
mud,  and  stones. 

Something  told  me  that  it  had  been  sent  special 
delivery  to  William  A.  Wellman,  and,  changing  my 
mind  as  to  my  safety,  I  scrambled  out  of  my  ma- 
chine faster  than  ever  I  had  before  and  started  a 


High  Notes  199 


sprint  for  the  communicating  trench,  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  "  ten  second  "  man,  As  I 
approached  it,  unceremonious  but  friendly  hands 
grabbed  me,  and  dumped  me  within  its  protecting 
sides. 

It  was  not  a  nice  place  at  all.  There  was  mud 
and  water  in  generous  quantities  under  foot,  and 
more  came  momentarily  from  overhead  as  other 
shells  struck  and  burst,  creating  havoc  in  the  nearby 
field.  The  bombardment  for  my  own  personal 
benefit  lasted  for  a  solid  hour  and  a  half.  When 
it  was  finished  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  splinter 
of  my  machine  left.  The  Boche  must  have  spent 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  destroying  something 
costing  six  thousand ! 

Regarded  from  a  distance  of  three  thousand 
miles,  and  three  months'  time,  it  was  a  highly  in- 
teresting experience,  but  then  it  did  not  strike  me 
as  such  at  all.  I  had  been  bombed  in  the  air;  but 
it  had  been  as  nothing  when  compared  with  this. 
The  noise  was  simply  appalling. 

When  they  finally  got  me  back  to  the  third  line 


20O  Go,  Get  'Em! 


trench,  covered  with  mud  from  head  to  feet,  I  had 
a  greater  respect  than  ever  for  the  boys  who  have 
to  stand  for  that  sort  of  thing  day  in  and  clay  out  for 
weeks.  The  land  may  have  its  advantages,  but  for 
real  comfort  and  safety  give  me  five  miles  in  the 
air  every  time. 

The  aviation  field  had  been  notified  of  my  mishap 
by  telephone,  and  an  automobile  was  waiting  to 
carry  me  home,  a  very  disgusted  and  crestfallen 
youth. 

Both  Hitchcock  and  I  had  a  "  battle  of  Paris  "— 
as  permission  is  commonly  called  —  coming  to  us 
as  a  reward  for  our  recent  exploit,  and,  with  ten 
whole  days  of  recreation  in  immediate  prospect,  I 
quickly  forgot  the  fiasco  in  which  my  morning's 
work  had  ended. 

Dressed  in  our  party  best,  we  left  Luneville  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  reached  Nancy  at  about  seven- 
thirty.  It  was  dark  as  a  pocket,  for  the  quaint  old 
town,  now  sadly  shattered,  is  only  ten  miles  from 
the  front,  receives  a  bombing  almost  every  starlit 


High  Notes  201 


night,  and  lights  —  even  on  automobiles  —  were  ab- 
solutely taboo. 

Still,  it  made  little  difference  to  us,  for  sight- 
seeing was  not  on  our  program.  With  the  second 
in  command  of  our  Escadrille  —  Lieutenant  Bachi- 
dan,  a  tall,  slender  and  distinguished-looking  young 
Frenchman  with  a  pointed  black  mustache  —  we 
made  a  bee  line  for  the  best  restaurant  that  the  town 
boasted.  Its  name  escapes  my  mind,  but  it  was 
typically  French  —  inside  a-glitter  with  lights  re- 
flected from  many  big  mirrors,  pewter  and  silver- 
ware hung  on  the  walls,  and  it  was  filled  with  of- 
ficers and  dazzling  girls. 

The  meal  was  a  wonderful  one  for  wartimes, 
soup,  fillet  of  sole,  veal,  artichokes,  wine,  French 
pastry  and  cafe  noir.  I  was  just  paying  the  check, 
having  been  less  lucky  in  "  flipping  "  than  I  had  been 
in  flying,  when,  above  the  merry  chatter  and  laugh- 
ter of  the  diners,  came  the  conglomerate  sound  of 
the  Alerte  —  the  agonized  shriek  of  the  siren  whis- 
tles, piercing  notes  of  the  bugle  and  honking  of 
many  horns.  Even  to  those  who  have  heard  it 


202  Go,  Get  'Em! 


often,  it  brings  a  sudden  tightening  around  the 
heart,  for  one  never  knows  who  are  to  be  the  vic- 
tims of  the  bombs  from  the  blackness  above,  whose 
arrival  the  Alerte  presages. 

We  all  sprang  to  our  feet,  with  the  laughter  in- 
stantly stilled.  The  logical  thing,  of  course,  was 
to  make  for  the  cellar,  so  we  all  rushed  for  the  street 
door,  and  had  almost  reached  it,  when  there  came 
from  directly  outside  a  sound  like  a  terrific  thun- 
derclap accompanied  simultaneously  by  a  nerve-tear- 
ing like  that  of  the  lightning's  bolt.  The  explosion 
set  the  restaurant  to  rocking  violently,  windows, 
mirrors  and  glassware  were  shattered,  the  place 
was  plunged  into  darkness,  and  some  of  the  girls 
fainted. 

When  we  reached  the  open  air,  we  saw  merely 
the  still  falling  ruins  of  what,  a  moment  before,  had 
been  a  pretty  two-storied  stone  house  immediately 
across  the  street. 

High  above,  the  stars  were  shining  peacefully, 
and  already  misty  fingers  of  light  were  shooting 
upwards  and  searching  the  darkness.  Now  and 


High  Notes  203 


then  one  picked  up  a  Boche  machine  high  in  the 
heavens  —  we  learned  later  that  twenty  had  taken 
part  in  that  evening's  raid  —  and  we  could  see  the 
red  and  yellow  lights  of  the  French  planes  as  they 
climbed  upward  to  drive  off  the  invaders,  and  the 
quick  flashes  of  the  anti-aircraft  shells  bursting 
around  and  below  the  enemy.  And,  strangely 
enough,  through  and  above  the  voices  of  the  guns, 
we  could  continually  hear  the  low  but  strangely 
penetrating  growl  of  the  Boche  motors. 

This  was  the  fourth  night-bombing  raid  in  which 
I  had  played  the  part  of  a  helpless  spectator,  but 
I  had  not  —  and  never  have  —  become  hardened  to 
it.  The  same  was  true  of  my  two  companions,  and, 
like  three  frightened  children,  we  scurried  for  the 
Lieutenant's  automobile,  and  made  more  haste  than 
was  consistent  with  safety  for  a  railway  station, 
three  stops  down  the  line.  Remember,  we  had  to 
drive,  without  lights,  over  black  and  unfamiliar 
roads.  Twice,  as  we  were  speeding  along,  I  heard 
the  descending  whistle  of  a  bomb,  one  of  which 
burst  with  a  blinding  flash  and  terrific  detonation 


204  Go,  Get  'Em! 


only  a  little  way  to  our  right,  and  the  other  farther 
off  to  the  left. 

The  sky  was  now  a  network  of  moving  search- 
lights which  made  silver  traceries  on  the  black  back- 
ground, and  I  had  just  stood  up  excitedly  in  the 
tonneau  to  point  out  one  of  them  in  whose  path  a 
Boche  machine  appeared  like  a  shimmering  white 
night  moth,  when  I  was  suddenly  flung  against  the 
front  seat.  The  driver  had  applied  his  emergency 
brake  with  all  his  power,  and  it  was  well  for  us 
that  he  had  done  so,  for  the  car  came  to  a  grinding 
stop  on  the  very  edge  of  a  newly  made  bomb  hole 
fully  six  feet  in  diameter,  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  Making  a  cautious  detour  around  the 
brink  of  this  crater,  we  finally  reached  our  station, 
only  to  have  to  wait  six  weary  hours  for  the  Paris- 
bound  train  which  had  been  held  up  by  the  bom- 
bardment. Traveling  in  Southern  France  is  un- 
certain, at  present. 

The  first  thing  that  Tom  and  I  did  upon  reaching 
Paris  the  next  morning  was  to  call  upon  Dr.  Gros. 
The  call  was  a  highly  pleasant  one,  for  it  produced 


Copyright  by  International  Film  Service,  Inc. 

LIEUTENANT    FRANK    BAYLIES 


High  Notes  205 


not  only  his  congratulations,  but  checks  for  five 
hundred  francs  apiece  —  a  little  present  from  the 
Lafayette  Flying  Corps  in  recognition  of  our  vic- 
tory. 

Thereafter  my  stay  in  the  city  was  one  continual 
round  of  recreation  and  I  fed  full  on  the  many 
pleasures  that  it  had  to  offer.  During  it  I  met 
several  other  aviators  on  leave  at  our  hotel,  among 
them  Major  Luf berry,  then  and  until  his  unhappy 
death,  the  king  of  American  flyers.  He  was  older 
than  most  of  us,  but  he  was  most  genial  and  wore 
his  honors  lightly. 

I  also  ran  across  Frank  Baylies  for  the  first  time 
since  his  departure  from  Avord,  and  we  "  talked 
shop  "  for  quite  a  while.  During  the  conversation 
he  described  to  me  a  phenomenal  escape  that  he  had 
recently  had.  His  plane  had  been  disabled  and 
brought  down  in  No-Man's  Land,  and  the  Alpine 
Chaussers  who  were  holding  the  front  line  in  that 
sector  had  promptly  put  up  a  triangular  barrage 
between  him  and  the  Huns,  he  being  in  its  apex. 
Unharmed,  he  had  run  and  dived  into  the  trench. 


206  Go,  Get  'Em! 


"  But  weren't  the  Boche  firing  at  you?  "  I  asked. 

"Were  they?  Well,  rather,  but  their  bullets 
weren't  going  fast  enough  to  catch  me  as  I  made 
that  trip,"  he  replied. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   RAINBOW    IN    LORRAINE 

MY  ten  days  of  much  appreciated  leave  came  to 
an  end,  and  on  P'ebruary  twenty-first  I  headed  back 
to  Luneville,  arriving  in  the  evening. 

When  I  left  the  train  at  the  familiar  station,  I 
had  the  odd  sensation  of  thinking  that  I  must  have 
disembarked  at  the  wrong  place.  Only  a  little  more 
than  a  week  previous,  the  narrow  streets  had  been 
filled  with  nothing  but  wiry  little  French  troops  in 
their  light  blue;  now  these  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
grown  bigger,  more  husky  and  younger,  and  to  have 
changed  their  uniforms  from  the  color  of  the  sky  to 
an  olive  drab.  I  figuratively  rubbed  my  eyes,  and 
looked  again.  The  same  strange  sight  met  them. 
In  every  direction  were  new,  yet  familiar,  types  of 
faces,  bronzed,  alert  of  expression,  and  crowned 
with  soft  slouch  hats. 

207 


208  Go,  Get  'Em! 


My  own  cap  went  into  the  air,  and  with  a  wild 
shout  I  dashed  for  the  nearest  group.  They  were 
the  Americans,  the  Americans  at  last,  and  a  strange 
happiness  made  my  breath  catch  in  my  throat 
When  I  had  left  Luneville  there  had  been  not  one 
in  the  town,  I  had  heard  not  even  a  rumor  of  their 
coming,  yet  now  the  streets  were  'full  of  them, 
laughing  noisily  in  their  happiness  to  be  almost  in 
the  thick  of  the  fray,  and  —  talking  English. 

Without  any  trumpeted  announcement  they  had 
come  silently  up,  thousands  of  them,  to  take  their 
places  for  the  first  time  with  their  new  allies  in  the 
front  line  trenches.  Some  were  already  out  there 
in  the  darkness  five  miles  away,  small  groups 
along  a  three-mile  sector,  intermingling  with  the 
veteran  poilus,  and  learning  the  art  of  modern  war- 
fare in  the  stern  school  of  actual  experience.  The 
others,  and  greater  majority,  were  still  in  rest  bar- 
racks in  the  town  which  had  been  my  home  for  two 
months,  and  were  fraternizing  perfectly  with  the 
French  quartered  there  also. 

A  strange  name  it  was  by  which  they  designated 


The  Rainbow  in  Lorraine         209 

themselves  —  the  "  Rainbow  Division  " ;  but.  its  ap- 
propriateness was  instantly  apparent,  for  not  only 
were  their  hat  cords  of  the  various  cardinal  colors, 
denoting  many  different  branches  of  the  service,  but, 
if  ever  a  body  of  men  spelt  "  hope,"  it  was  this  one 
—  hope  for  the  Allies,  hope  for  civilization  and  the 
rainbow  promise  of  the  coming  of  more  and  yet 
more  to  bring  the  sunlight  of  victory  after  the 
storm. 

Perhaps  they  were  not  "  a  sight  for  sore  eyes," 
and  perhaps  I  did  not  talk  with  them  from  Colonel 
to  cook.  Almost  immediately  I  became  a  frequent 
visitor  at  mess  with  certain  of  the  officers,  demo- 
cratic princes  all.  And  they  seemed  almost  as  glad 
to  see  some  one  in  the  French  uniform  who  could 
speak  American,  as  I  was  to  see  them. 

To  be  sure,  my  association  with  these  splendid 
men  and  boys  of  ours,  except  when  —  with  an 
added  incentive  —  I  was  in  the  air  over  the  trenches, 
guarding  them  from  hostile  airplanes,  was  purely 
social ;  but,  when  I  was  off  duty,  I  both  saw  a  good 
deal  of  their  life,  and  heard  many  first-hand  stories 


210  Go,  Get  'Em! 


of  their  doings,  so  that  I  felt  almost  like  one  of 
ttiem. 

Since  any  word  concerning  the  "  boys  from 
home,"  who  are  "  over  there,"  cannot  be  amiss,  I 
will  tell  one  or  two  of  these  stories  and  mention  a 
few  of  "  the  boys  "  with  whom  I  became  pleasantly 
acquainted. 

Their  great  commander  was  in  Luneville  only 
periodically,  and  occasion  never  served  so  that  I 
might  have  the  honor  of  meeting  him  personally, 
although  I  saw  him  several  times  and  his  name  was 
on  every  lip.  The  stories  of  how  his  troops  wor- 
ship him  are  in  no  wise  exaggerated  —  he  is  their 
idol,  and  rightly  so,  for  he  is  every  inch  a  man  and 
a  fighter. 

I  did,  however,  become  well  acquainted  with  sev- 
eral of  the  officers,  among  whom  none  stands  out 
more  forcibly  in  my  recollection  than  Major  George 
Emerson  Brewer,  M.O.R.C,  a  famous  New  York 
surgeon  in  times  of  peace,  and  also  a  close  friend 
of  the  Hitchcocks,  father  and  son.  Tom  and  I 
dined  with  him  a  number  of  times,  and  I  enjoyed 


The  Rainbow  in  Lorraine         211 

immensely  his  hospitable  and  genial  entertainment. 

Another  of  my  new  acquaintances  was  Captain 
de  Forest  Willard,  a  regular  army  officer,  whose 
home  was  in  Philadelphia.  He,  too,  was  in  the 
Medical  Corps,  and  was  a  recognized  expert  in  bone 
setting,  as  well  as  an  authority  on  "  trench  feet  " — 
a  painful  affliction  and  swelling  brought  on  by  long 
standing  in  mud  and  water.  For  several  years,  be- 
fore we  entered  the  war,  he  had  been  in  England 
and  at  the  front  on  behalf  of  the  government,  mak- 
ing this  a  special  study,  I  believe.  Under  him  was  a 
young  Lieutenant  named  Dicky,  from  Tarentum, 
Pennsylvania,  who  was  not  only  a  clever  physician 
but  something  even  more  interesting  to  us  —  an 
accomplished  pianist.  He  would  frequently  come 
to  our  chateau  and  make  the  strings  of  our  old 
instrument  talk  in  ragtime,  or  the  language  of  the 
classics  in  music,  for  the  men  who  were  quartered 
there. 

Two  others,  who  were  almost  always  together, 
fine  young  Texans  and  the  best  of  sports,  were 
Captain  Royal  A.  Ferris,  Jr.,  of  Corsicana,  and 


212  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Captain  W.  R.  Hudson  of  Dallas,  both  of  the  motor 
squadron.  I  dined  with  them,  or  they  with  me, 
continually. 

From  the  few  localities  mentioned  you  can  see 
from  how  widely  separated  sections  of  the  good  old 
U.  S.  A.  the  men  of  the  Rainbow  Division  came. 
They  were  not  only  like  a  band  of  brothers  repre- 
sentative of  the  unity  of  our  country,  but  the  high- 
est type  of  American  manhood  —  the  first  to  volun- 
teer. 

No  one  section  had  a  monopoly  of  courage;  they 
were  all  brave  and  willing,  yet  it  was  the  white 
troops  from  Alabama  who  first  established  a  repu- 
tation for  fearlessness  and  fight,  which  earned  for 
them  the  name,  bestowed  by  their  French  comrades 
in  arms,  of  the  "  American  shock  troops." 

Like  most  things  of  like  nature,  it  came  about  as 
the  result  of  one  particular  incident,  and  I  mean  to 
tell  the  story  here  in  all  its  grewsomeness,  for  it  is  a 
sample  of  what  goes  on  daily  and  what  America  has 
got  to  recognize  and  face  squarely. 

The  story  is,  of  course,  hearsay;  but  I  can  vouch 


The  Rainbow  in  Lorraine          213 

for  its  truth,  for  I  heard  it  first-hand  from  some  of 
those  who  participated  in  the  incident,  and  also  saw 
and  talked  with  the  victim. 

One  night,  not  long  after  the  Yankees  had  taken 
their  place  in  the  front  line  trenches,  an  Alabama 
boy  was  sent  out,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  to 
a  listening  post  in  a  shell  hole  close  to  the  German 
lines.  There,  all  alone,  he  was  surprised  by  a  num- 
ber of  Huns  and  wounded  so  severely  that  they  left 
him,  apparently  believing  that  he  was  as  good  as 
dead.  But,  before  they  departed,  they  mutilated  his 
body  with  their  bayonets  in  a  most  brutally  horrible 
and  indescribable  manner.  Six  hours  later  his 
comrades  found  and  rescued  him,  bringing  him  into 
the  American  lines,  almost,  but  not  quite,  dead. 

When  his  fellow  Alabamans  learned  what  had 
been  done  to  him,  and  realized  the  wanton  fiendish- 
ness  that  had  caused  it,  they  knelt  about  him  in  the 

X 

mud  of  the  trench,  and  took  a  fearful  and  solemn 
oath  to  avenge  him  and  never  take  a  German  pris- 
oner. Nor  have  they,  and  if  you  could  have  seen 
what  I  saw,  you  would  have  only  praise  for  them. 


214  Go,  Get  'Em! 


The  German  fighter  has  ceased  to  be  a  human 
being.  He  is  a  mad  animal  —  no,  he  is  lower  than 
any  animal,  for  his  atrocities  are  the  result  of  dia- 
bolical premeditation,  not  the  mere  killing  instinct. 

Of  quite  a  different  nature  was  another  incident 
that  was  described  to  me  by  one  of  my  new  friends, 
and  in  which  another  Alabama  boy  played  the  lead- 
ing role.  I  met  him  also.  He  was  a  corporal,  a 
huge,  light-haired  chap,  with  the  mild  manners  of 
a  baby,  and  a  soft  Southern  drawl  in  his  voice;  but, 
as  often,  appearances  were  deceitful  in  his  case,  and 
he  was  a  "  scrapper "  from  the  word  go.  One 
night  he,  too,  had  been  on  outpost  duty,  and,  when 
he  rejoined  his  comrades  in  rest  billet,  he  told  them 
that  he  had  captured  and  brought  in  a  Boche  pris- 
oner. (This  happened  "before  the  other  incident,  by 
the  way.)  They  laughed  at  his  tale  and  told  him 
to  tell  it  to  the  Marines.  The  next  night  he  left  the 
front  trench  on  an  unofficial  trip  across  No-Man's- 
Land  through  the  pitchy  darkness,  sneaked  along 
until  he  had  discovered  an  enemy  outpost  and  then, 
springing  upon  him,  he  carefully  knocked  him  out 


The  Rainbow  in  Lorraine          215 

with  a  blow  from  his  fist.  The  German  was  almost 
as  big  as  his  captor,  but  the  latter  bundled  him 
across  his  shoulders,  "  toted  "  him  back  like  a  bag 
of  meal,  and  threw  him  down  in  the  trench  with 
the  drawled-out  words,  "  Thar,  now  perhaps  yo'll 
believe  me."  They  did. 

I  might  go  on  to  tell  you  many  other  like  stories, 
both  tragic  and  humorous ;  but  this  is  a  narrative  of 
the  air,  not  the  trenches,  so  I  will  return  to  my  own 
element. 

For  the  better  part  of  that  week  I  flew  daily  over 
the  Rainbow  boys  without  having  a  chance  to  en- 
gage the  enemy  in  their  behalf,  but  February  twen- 
tieth produced  a  bit  of  excitement  which  had  an  un- 
pleasant ending. 

The  morning  dawned  clear,  with  all  conditions 
auspicious  for  photography,  and  I  was  one  of  seven 
chasse  pilots  selected  to  go  into  Germany  as  air 
convoy  for  one  of  our  big  Letords,  whose  observer 
was  instructed  to  take  a  few  new  views  of  Saarburg. 
We  made  the  twenty-five-mile  trip,  flying  low  at 
only  three  thousand  meters,  from  which  altitude  I 


2l6  Go,  Get  'Em! 


could  clearly  see  the  country-side  with  its  shining 
canals,  rivers  and  narrow  white  roads,  as  we  flew 
over  them.  When  we  approached  the  city,  laid  out 
in  dull  red  and  brownish  squares,  the  wispy  smoke 
from  its  buildings,  and  the  darker  smudges  from  the 
steam  engines  going  and  coming,  were  clearly  visi- 
ble. 

Undisturbed  for  a  time,  our  clumsy  Letord  circled 
slowly  around  until  the  photographer  had  taken  all 
the  pictures  that  he  desired.  Finally  his  machine 
headed  for  France  with  our  little  planes  on  either 
side,  above  and  below  it,  and  almost  immediately 
I  caught  sight  of  twelve  speedy  Boche  Albatros 
machines  coming  for  us  from  farther  in  Germany, 
and  they  had  the  altitude  on  us. 

An  Albatros,  by  the  way,  is  almost  the  exact 
counterpart  of  the  Nicuport,  except  that  its  wings 
tilt  up  a  trifle,  and  they,  and  its  rear  ailerons,  are  a 
bit  broader.  Our  planes  climbed  better,  but  they 
had  it  on  us  in  diving. 

As  they  dove,  I  shot  down  beneath  the  Letord, 
to  protect  it  at  its  most  vulnerable  point  of  attack, 


The  Rainbow  in  Lorraine         217 

at  the  same  time,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  watching 
out  for  the  enemy. 

In  an  instant,  the  air  at  that  spot  was  the  scene 
of  a  veritable  dog  fight.  The  enemy  greatly  out- 
numbered us,  but  our  duty  was  plain  —  to  protect 
the  Letord  at  all  costs. 

As  I  looked  upward  at  the  melee,  I  saw  one 
Boche  fly  clear  and  shoot  downward  almost  verti- 
cally, until  he  was  directly  beneath  me,  and  ready 
to  speed  up  and  attack  the  machine  that  I  was  guard- 
ing. The  best  defense  in  the  air,  as  on  the  earth, 
is  an  attack,  and  I  started  to  dive  on  him.  My 
position  was  excellent,  and  I  should  probably  have 
disposed  of  him  in  quick  order;  but,  just  as  I  pointed 
downward,  my  eyes  caught  sight  of  another  ma- 
chine dropping  past  me,  in  flames.  A  hasty  side 
glance  disclosed  the  familiar  Black  Cat  of  our  own 
Escadrille,  and  the  numeral  "  12."  It  was  enough. 
I  knew  that  our  Lieutenant  Marin  had  been  fatally 
hit,  and  was  doomed. 

It  was  merely  an  incident  in  the  day's  work,  and 
I  knew  perfectly  well  where  my  duty  lay;  but, 


2l8  Go,  Get  'Em! 


drawn  by  the  sort  of  fascination  that  a  candle  exer- 
cises on  a  moth,  I  simply  could  not  help  following 
that  torch  in  its  flaming  downward  rush,  and  follow 
it  I  did,  almost  to  the  earth,  and  close  enough  to  see 
that  his  plane  was  a  complete  wreck.  Poor  Marin, 
lie  was  burned  to  death  long  before  his  body  reached 
the  ground,  and  there  both  he  and  his  machine  were 
consumed. 

My  uncontrollable  impulse  had  caused  me  to  lose 
a  clear  chance  to  score  against  the  Hun ;  but  victory 
rested  on  our  wings,  and  the  attackers  were  beaten 
off  with  the  loss  of  two  planes,  while  Lieutenant 
Marin  was  our  only  fatality.  Still,  our  exultation 
was  dampened  by  his  loss,  for  he  was  a  fine  fellow 
and  a  skillful  flyer. 


CHAPTER  XV 

INCIDENTS   AND   ACCIDENTS 

ALL  that  had  preceded  was  merely  a  prologue 
for  the  happenings  of  the  month  of  March,  culmi- 
nating in  the  sudden  —  but  I  trust  only  temporary 
—  breaking  off  of  my  career  in  the  air. 

We  welcomed  the  advent  of  Spring  with  keenest 
pleasure.  Winter  flying  is  not  a  thing  of  joy,  and 
the  prospect  of  better  weather  meant,  moreover,  in- 
creased activity,  which  was  what  we  all  desired. 

And  the  month  started  off  with  an  amusing  inci- 
dent which  set  the  whole  Escadrille  to  laughing,  and 
at  the  same  time  still  further  demonstrated  the  big 
part  that  Fortune  plays  in  flying.  One  afternoon 
I  had  finished  my  patrol  and  was  standing  on  our 
field  in  conversation  with  Captain  Azire.  As  the 
air  and  sky  were  clear,  we  could  see  our  boys  re- 
turning singly  and  in  pairs  from  a  considerable  dis- 
tance. 

219 


220  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Suddenly  the  captain  clutched  my  arm  with  one 
hand,  and,  pointing  upward  with  the  other,  cried, 
"Look  there!" 

High  up,  and  almost  above  us,  I  saw  a  Nieuport 
coming  earthward  in  a  spinning  nose  dive,  with  the 
speed  of  a  bullet.  There  were  no  enemy  machines 
about  to  have  disabled  it  or  made  necessary  such  a 
piece  of  acrobatics,  and  it  looked  as  though  the  pilot 
had  completely  lost  control  of  his  machine. 

"  He's  done  for,"  I  said;  "  I  guess  that  his  rear 
controls  are  broken,  poor  chap." 

There  was  not  a  thing  that  we  could  do  to  prevent 
the  approaching  tragedy,  and  we  simply  stood  spell- 
bound with  horror  as  the  doomed  plane,  spinning 
like  a  top,  hurtled  perpendicularly  toward  the 
ground. 

It  had  almost  reached  its  destination,  and  we  were 
steeling  our  nerves  for  the  seemingly  inevitable 
crash,  when  I  saw  it  suddenly  straighten  out  and 
make  a  perfect  "  pancake  "  landing  in  the  middle  of 
a  little  stream  that  bordered  the  field. 

Accompanied  by  the  captain  and  several  other 


Incidents  and  Accidents  221 

pilots  and  mechanics,  I  ran  for  the  spot,  and,  as  I 
approached,  saw  that  the  machine  had  been  badly 
smashed  by  its  violent  impact  with  the  water.  Be- 
side it,  standing  in  the  icy  stream  almost  up  to  his 
waist,  was  a  small  French  aviator  —  one  of  the 
youngsters  of  our  Escadrille.  He  was  blubbering 
like  a  baby.  As  we  reached  the  bank  and  he  saw 
us,  he  began  to  say  over  and  over,  "  Mon  capitaine, 
mon  capitaine,  j'etais  malade  en  1'air!  Voila  mon 
appareil!  "  ("  My  captain,  my  captain,  I  was  sick 
in  the  air !  Look  at  my  machine !  ") 

The  relief  from  the  tension  created  by  the  ex- 
pectation of  a  terrible  tragedy,  and  the  comical  sight 
of  the  lad  with  his  face  a  picture  of  distress  and 
chagrin,  was  more  than  any  of  us  could  stand,  and 
\ve  fairly  howled  with  mirth.  He  was  helped 
ashore,  and  there  explained  that,  while  high  up,  he 
had  been  taken  suddenly  and  violently  ill  with  "  mal 
rde  1'air  "  and  had  probably  fainted  away,  for  he 
actually  remembered  nothing  more  until  the  plunge 
into  the  cold  water  brought  him  back  to  conscious- 
ness. Some  inexplicable  instinct  may  have  made 


222  Go,  Get  'Em! 


him  right  his  plane  at  the  last  possible  moment, 
otherwise  his  escape  was  an  out  and  out  miracle. 

This  being  sick  in  the  air  is  not  at  all  an  uncom- 
mon malady  among  young  pilots.  You  can  imag- 
ine what  a  wrench  one's  internal  anatomy  receives 
when,  for  example,  you  do  a  "  Russian  Mountain," 
diving  precipitously  at  a  speed  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  an  hour,  suddenly  turn  almost  at  a  right 
angle  and  instantly  shoot  upward  again.  Even  the 
experienced  flyer  gets  caught  napping  occasionally, 
forgets  to  tense  his  stomach  muscles,  and  then  .  .  . 
"  Voila  mon  appareil !  " 

Within  a  day  or  two  of  this  event  there  came  a 
piece  of  news  which  meant  a  good  deal  to  me.  I 
happened  to  be  in  the  Pilotage,  or  captain's  office, 
one  morning,  when  the  mail  came  in.  He  opened 
one  official  appearing  envelope,  read  it  through,  and 
then  turned  to  me  with  outstretched  hand,  and  said, 
"  Congratulations,  M.  Wellman.  I  have  just  been 
notified  by  the  headquarters  of  the  Eighth  Army 
that  your  rank  has  been  raised  to  that  of  *  Marechal 
des  Logis.'  "  I  was  as  surprised  as  I  was  happy. 


Incidents  and  Accidents  223 

The  title  —  literally  translated,  "  Quartermaster  "— 
was  approximately  that  of  Sergeant,  although  out- 
ranking it  a  little,  and  it  carried  an  increase  of  pay, 
so  that  now  I  would  get  twelve  francs  a  day. 

At  the  same  time  I  was  also  given  a  still  more 
powerful  and  efficient  fighting  machine,  a  two 
hundred  and  twenty  horse-power  Nieuport,  which 
carried  three  guns,  one,  the  Vickers  that  shot 
through  the  propeller  as  in  my  former  planes,  and 
the  other  two,  Lewis  machine  guns,  which  were 
mounted  in  little  pouches  on  either  wing  just  above 
my  head.  All  three  were  fired  simultaneously  by 
the  single  trigger  on  my  control  stick,  and  were  so 
aimed  that  their  bullets  would  meet,  and  pass,  at 
about  two  hundred  yards  distant. 

The  next  incident  of  this  month,  which  fairly 
bristled  with  them,  had  a  different  ending  from  the 
one  first  described,  and  it  cast  a  spell  over  the  whole 
Escadrille.  It  affected  me  terribly. 

I  have  already  written  repeatedly  of  Tommy 
Hitchcock,  for  his  brief  career  and  mine  were  closely 
interwoven.  We  had  become  fast  friends  while  at 


224 


Avord,  and,  although  he  had  not  graduated  until 
after  I,  it  was  only  because  he  entered  the  school 
somewhat  later,  for  he  beat  my  record  in  going 
through  the  training,  and  established  one  which  no 
other  American  has  ever  equaled. 

After  he  came  to  Luneville  we  flew  as  team  mates 
almost  constantly,  as  you  have  seen,  and,  since  he 
was  the  only  other  American  in  our  Escadrille  most 
of  the  time  (Nordoff  and  Thompson  were  with  us 
for  a  while,  but  had  been  transferred  to  Manoncourt 
several  weeks  previous  to  this),  we  became  chums 
who  were  as  close  as  brothers.  What  a  flyer  and 
fighter  he  was  —  a  sure  "  ace  "  in  the  making,  al- 
though his  record  was  then  only  two  official  and 
two  unofficial  planes. 

On  the  sixth  of  March,  for  some  reason  which 
I  do  not  know,  he  left  the  platoon  and  flew  off  alone 
into  the  enemy's  country.  Probably  he  had  sighted 
a  Boche  inviting  attack,  one  that  had  not  been  seen 
by  any  of  the  rest  of  us  —  and  I  was  not  with  him  ! 
Just  what  actually  happened  I  have  yet  to  learn,  al- 
though I  may  some  day;  but  night  came  and  no 


Incidents  and  Accidents  225 

Tom  Hitchcock,  nor  could  any  word  of  him  be 
obtained  from  the  front  line  observation  posts,  to 
all  of  which  we  anxiously  telephoned.  He  was  set 
down  among  the  missing  —  dead,  or,  what  is  often 
worse  in  this  war,  captured  by  the  Huns.  I  spent  a 
blue  and  most  unhappy  evening. 

It  was  not  until  some  time  later  that  we  received 
word,  through  a  brief  note,  that  Tom  had  been 
brought  down  in  a  fight  near  Hatignay,  shot  through 
the  stomach,  and  was  in  the  hospital  prison  camp.1 

With  Tom  gone  I  felt  lost  myself,  for  we  had 
flown  so  much  together  that  I  had  come  to  depend 
upon  him,  and  I  trusted  him  absolutely.  I  knew 
that  if  I  made  an  attack,  and  got  into  a  tight  fix,  he 
would  be  right  there  to  lend  me  his  aid,  and  knowl- 
edge of  this  kind  helps  greatly  in  flying.  Not  that 
I  had  any  reason  to  believe  that  any  one  of  my  other 
comrades  would  not  do  as  much,  but  the  feeling  still 

1  On  May  twenty-ninth  Mr.  Wellman  received  a  letter  from 
Major  Hitchcock,  saying  that  he  had  received  word  that  his 
son  Tom  was  in  Geissen,  and  had  been  wounded  through 
the  thigh,  and  later  one  saying  that  General  Petain  had  com- 
missioned Tom  as  a  sous-officer,  which  would  result  in  his 
transfer  to  a  better  prison  camp. 


226  Go,  Get  'Em! 


persisted,  and  shortly  after  Tom's  disappearance  I 
asked,  and  received,  permission  to  ily  as  a  one  man 
patrol  thereafter,  except  when  we  were  called  upon 
for  special  squadron  duty. 

It  seemed  almost  ironical  to  me  that  I  should  be 
the  only  American  in  the  air  over  the  lines  held 
partly  by  American  troops,  for  more  and  more  of 
the  Rainbow  boys  were  being  graduated  daily  from 
their  final  training  and  sent  forward  to  hold  an 
ever  increasing  part  of  the  front  trench,  flanked  by 
the  veteran  poilus. 

There  was  little  time  allowed  me  either  for  regret 
or  reflection,  however,  for  Tom's  loss  came  on  the 
threshold  of  a  new  series  of  lively  occurrences  in 
which  I  had  a  part,  the  first  of  them  happening  on 
the  very  next  day.  It  came  within  an  "  ace  "  of 
being  my  last  fight! 

For  several  days  past  the  observers  had  seen  a 
speedy  German  Albatros  flying  in  our  sector,  and 
everything  pointed  to  its  being  the  plane  of  the  won- 
derful Boche  ace,  Geigl,  for  its  nose  and  the  last 
half  of  its  -fuselage  were  painted  a  brilliant  red,  and 


Incidents  and  Accidents  227 

it  was  obviously  operated  by  a  master's  hand.  The 
Germans  usually  camouflage  their  machines  clev- 
erly; but  many  of  their  best  pilots  paint  them  in 
glaring  colors  and  fantastic  designs,  apparently  out 
of  pure  bravado,  for  of  course  they  can  easily  be 
spotted  and  recognized. 

The  plane  in  question,  the  reports  said,  always 
flew  alone  and  at  a  high  altitude  and  its  owner  was 
apparently  out  "  looking  for  a  fight,"  his  method  of 
procedure  being  to  catch  a  Frenchman  flying  "  solo," 
and  suddenly  drop  out  of  the  clouds  upon  him. 
We  had  all  expressed  a  keen  desire  to  accommodate 
him  with  a  scrap,  and  in  me  the  desire  now  burned 
doubly  strong,  for  I  was  bitter  over  Tom's  fate,  and 
wanted  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  Boche. 

With  such  feelings  in  my  heart,  I  started  out  on 
the  morning  of  the  seventh  and  headed  northward 
toward  the  spot  whence  Geigl  had  been  previously 
reported.  Although  I  was  eager  to  meet  him,  I 
went  with  no  spirit  of  superiority  or  overconfidence. 
Do  not,  for  an  instant,  harbor  the  idea  that  the  Ger- 
man airmen  are  inferior  as  a  whole  to  those  of  the 


228  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Allies.  Such  is  far  from  true.  We  may  have  con- 
trol in  the  air  in  most  sectors  by  outnumbering 
them;  but,  with  the  possible  exception  of  that  in 
the  Royal  Flying  Corps,  the  average  skill  is  as  high 
among  Hun  aviators  as  among  those  of  any  other 
nation,  and  their  leading  "  aces  "  are  flying  fighters 
of  remarkable  prowess.  Geigl  was,  I  think,  accred- 
ited with  twenty-eight  allied  planes  at  this  time. 

Perhaps  I  should  qualify  the  foregoing  by  saying 
that  it  was  true  of  the  time  about  which  I  am  writ- 
ing. I  am  confident  that  when  our  Yankee  aviators 
are  fully  trained  in  great  numbers,  they  will  lead  all 
others  in  the  air,  individually  and  collectively. 

When  I  reached  the  locality  toward  which  I  had 
headed,  I  began  to  fly  about,  somewhat  aimlessly,  in 
a  sweeping  figure  8,  combined  with  "  Russian  Moun- 
tains," for  there  was  apparently  nothing  of  a  hos- 
tile nature  anywhere  about. 

After  some  minutes  of  this  sort  of  thing,  during 
which  I  got  to  thinking  about  a  variety  of  matters 
not  in  the  least  connected  with  fighting,  I  chanced 
to  glance  above  me.  My  heart  gave  a  wild  leap. 


Incidents  and  Accidents  229 

There,  diving  directly  on  me  like  a  plummet,  was 
the  very  plane  I  sought,  and  it  was  not  a  bit  more 
than  a  hundred  and  fifty  meters  over  my  head!  In 
other  words,  the  German  terror  had  me  exactly 
where  he  wanted  me.  I  knew  that  I  had  fallen  into 
his  trap,  and  the  unpleasant  thought  flashed  through 
my  mind  that  my  time  had  come,  as  sure  as  shoot- 
ing. There  was  not  a  second  for  consideration. 
By  instinct  merely,  I  tilted  my  ailerons  and  caused 
my  plane  to  fall  into  a  right  hand  wing  slip.  In- 
stinct saved  me. 

It  is  a  rather  odd  fact  that  when  an  opponent 
does  a  wing  slip  below  you,  it  is  at  first  almost  im- 
possible to  tell  in  what  direction  he  is  tilting,  and 
which  way  his  machine  will  fall.  Geigl  apparently 
guessed  wrong,  for  he  sped  by  me  at  a  widely  di- 
verging angle,  firing  into  space. 

I  was  at  the  time  well  inside  the  French  lines, 
and  he  did  not  seem  to  have  a  very  keen  wish  to 
engage  in  battle  at  a  low  altitude  over  the  enemy's 
country,  for,  when  he  realized  that  he  had  missed 
me,  he  turned  and  headed  eastward  immediately. 


230  Go,  Get  'Em! 


I  righted  my  plane,  took  a  few  ineffectual  pot  shots 
at  him,  and  then  turned  homeward,  quite  well  satis- 
fied to  have  come  through  alive,  although  I  could 
not  say  that  I  had  "  met  the  enemy  and  he  was 
mine." 

I  did  not  have  time  to  be  frightened  during  the 
brief  encounter,  but  I  had  plenty  afterwards,  and 
the  cold  perspiration  broke  out  all  over  me  when 
I  thought  of  what  I  had  escaped,  again  by  pure  luck. 

The  very  next  day  brought  another  and  new  ad- 
venture, from  which  I  drew  much  experience,  but 
no  more  laurels  than  I  had  in  my  encounter  with 
Herr  Geigl. 

I  awoke  to  find  the  weather  most  disagreeable, 
with  a  bank  of  heavy  clouds  covering  the  earth  at 
not  more  than  a  thousand  meters'  altitude,  and  I 
anticipated  at  least  a  morning  when  the  "no 
school "  signal  would  be  given.  I  had  guessed 
right,  and  for  the  better  part  of  the  day  we  spent 
our  time  in  the  usual  manner,  waiting  for  it  to 
clear  up. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  was 


Incidents  and  Accidents  231 

out  on  the  field,  I  saw  two  German  Drachens,  or 
observation  balloons,  slowly  arising  from  the  earth 
in  the  distant  east,  five  miles  or  perhaps  more  be- 
hind the  Hun  third-line  trenches.  They  went 
steadily  up  and  up  until  they  seemed  to  come  to  rest 
with  their  backs  against  the  clouds.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  they  held  two  observers  each,  and  that 
they  were  connected  with  the  ground  by  wire  cables 
attached  to  motor  windlasses  mounted  on  trucks. 

It  was  a  fairly  ordinary  occurrence  to  see  these 
"  sausages  " —  as  we  called  them  —  in  the  sky,  and 
I  was  turning  away,  without  giving  them  a  second 
thought,  when  Captain  Azire  came  briskly  up,  and 
said,  "  Wellman,  I  want  you  to  go  up  and  attack 
that  right-hand  balloon.  Have  you  incendiary  bul- 
lets in  your  plane?  " 

My  answer  was  in  the  affirmative,  and,  hastily 
getting  into  my  machine,  I  headed  upward  and  east- 
ward; by  the  time  I  had  reached  the  front  line  of 
Franco-American  trenches  I  was  ready  to  pop  into 
the  bank  of  dense  clouds.  With  one  final  glance  in 
the  direction  of  my  intended  quarry,  I  pulled  my 


232  Go,  Get  'Em! 


control  stick  and  dove  headfirst  into  their  soft, 
moistly  enveloping  bosom.  It  is  almost  impossible 
to  describe  the  sensation  of  flying  within  the  clouds. 
There  is  a  feeling  of  being  stifled,  all  idea  of  direc- 
tion disappears,  and  it  is  actually  impossible  to  see 
the  front  of  your  plane.  If  you  can  imagine  your- 
self being  wrapped  in  a  huge  mass  of  light  gray 
cotton  wool  of  a  consistency  much  denser  than  the 
thickest  fog  which  you  have  ever  known,  you  will 
have  it. 

The  theory  of  fighting  among  the  clouds  is  simple 
enough.  You  merely  estimate  how  long  it  is  going 
to  take  you  to  reach  a  given  point,  judging  your 
direction  as  best  you  can,  and  then  pop  out  again 
when  you  think  that  you  have  arrived. 

But  the  practice  is  quite  another  thing.  For  a 
few  minutes  I  flew  through  the  "  light  darkness," 
then  headed  downward  to  peek  out  like  a  mouse 
from  its  hole. 

I  saw  my  balloon,  all  right  —  it  was  fully  five 
miles  behind  me,  and  to  my  left,  which  was  rather 
discouraging. 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 

ENEMY    OBSERVATION    BALLOON    FALLING    IN    FLAMES 


Incidents  and  Accidents  233 

Unseen  from  below,  I  hastily  reentered  my  pro- 
tecting mantle  of  invisibility,  swung  about  and  tried 
again.  When  I  was  quite  sure  that  I  had  covered 
the  distance  which  intervened  between  the  sausage 
and  me,  I  nosed  downward  and  peeked  out  once 
more.  This  time  I  was  not  a  particle  over  three 
miles  off  in  my  calculations,  and,  swearing  roundly 
at  myself,  I  headed  upwards  to  resume  my  seem- 
ingly hopeless  game  of  blindman's  buff.  Twice 
more  I  made  my  airy  reconnoitrance,  each  time 
emerging  a  little  nearer  the  unsuspecting  enemy,  and 
on  my  fifth  attempt  my  judgment  was  faultless  and 
I  came  out  squarely  on  top  of  him.  The  only  trou- 
ble this  time  was  that  when  I  shot  out  of  the  cloud 
I  could  not  see  a  thing  but  more  clouds,  and  it  was 
some  seconds  before  I  discovered,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, that  /  was  flying  exactly  upside  down. 

This  will  probably  seem  almost  incomprehensible 
to  you,  but  it  is  a  well-established  fact  that,  no  mat- 
ter how  good  an  equilibrium  test  a  man  may  have 
passed,  he  has  no  way  of  knowing  in  which  direc- 
tion his  head  and  heels  are  pointing  after  he  has 


234  Go>  Gct  'Em! 


flown  in  the  clouds  for  some  time,  until  his  eyesight 
conies  to  his  aid.  Centrifugal  force  and  the  speed 
of  his  machine  almost  completely  overcome  grav- 
ity. 

I  righted  myself  as  soon  as  possible  by  doing  a 
quick  turn,  and  dove  in  a  beautiful  position,  but 
I  was  too  late.  I  had  been  observed,  the  balloon 
was  rapidly  being  pulled  down  by  its  windlass  and, 
as  I  neared  it,  shooting  as  fast  as  possible,  I  saw 
the  two  observers  jump  into  space  with  their  para- 
chutes. Down  they  floated,  as  unconcernedly  as 
performers  at  a  picnic,  and,  although  I  might  have 
killed  them  both  in  the  air,  I  refrained,  for  they 
were  unarmed  and  helpless,  and  the  French  and 
Americans  do  not  make  war  on  such. 

My  incendiary  bullets  failed  to  do  any  damage  to 
the  sausage,  and  an  instant  later  I  found  myself  too 
busy  extricating  myself  from  an  unpleasant  position 
to  bother  with  it  further,  for  the  Huns  on  the  earth 
below  now  began  to  shoot  at  me  with  chains,  on 
either  end  of  which  were  flaming  balls  of  pitch.  If 
one  of  these  had  struck  and  wrapped  itself  about 


Incidents  and  Accidents  235 

any  part  of  my  plane,  I  would  have  reached  the 
earth  in  the  guise  of  a  meteorite.  They  came  too 
close  for  comfort,  but  did  not  score  a  hit,  and  once 
more  I  was  obliged  to  start  homeward  in  complete 
disgust.  Captain  Azire  had  been  watching  me,  and 
soothed  my  wounded  feelings  somewhat  by  telling 
me  that  it  was  not  at  all  a  simple  matter  to  "  get " 
a  balloon,  that  I  had  done  reasonably  well  for  a  first 
attempt,  and  would  have  better  luck  the  next  time. 

As  for  me,  I  sincerely  hoped  that  there  would  be 
no  "next  time."  I  would  rather  attack  a  whole 
flock  of  airplanes  than  one  sausage,  after  that  ex- 
perience. 

The  day  which  followed,  March  ninth,  was  to  be 
the  day  of  days  in  my  flying  life.  The  fireworks 
started  early.  It  was  a  beautifully  clear  morning 
and  I  started  off  on  a  solo  patrol  soon  after  day- 
break, flying  about  fifty-two  hundred  meters  high. 
Not  long  after  I  went  into  the  air  I  began  to  see 
shells  from  our  anti-aircraft  guns  bursting  to  my 
left  over  the  forest  of  Parroy.  I  piqued  down  to 
discover  what  the  excitement  was  all  about,  and 


236  Go,  Get  'Em! 


soon  caught  sight  of  an  enemy's  bi-place  observa- 
tion Rumpler  over  the  woods.  Mine  was  the  only 
French  plane  in  the  neighborhood,  and,  knowing 
that  the  Hun  was  doubtless  carrying  away  some  per- 
fectly good  photographs  of  our  positions  in  that 
sector,  and  that  it  was  my  duty  to  see  to  it  that  they 
were  not  delivered  to  the  man  who  plotted  the  artil- 
lery fire,  I  got  busy.  Performing  the  prescribed 
attack  instantly,  I  got  within  fifteen  yards  of  the 
bottom  of  my  opponent's  plane  before  opening  fire 
on  it,  and  my  first  shot  must  have  killed  the  Boche 
observer  instantly,  for  his  body  fell  half  out  of  the 
fuselage,  held  in  only  by  his  straps. 

My  upward  momentum  carried  me  well  above  the 
Rumpler,  but  I  felt  that  I  had  it,  for  I  had  evened 
the  odds  and  reduced  it  to  a  one-man  plane,  so  I 
turned  with  the  intention  of  diving  directly  on  it. 
But  just  at  that  instant  I  caught  sight  of  no  less 
than  five  Albatros  planes  diving  straight  for  me 
out  of  the  German  air.  In  my  excitement  I  had 
not  seen  them  before,  and  now,  deciding  in  favor 
of  discretion,  I  turned  my  dive  into  a  renversement, 


Copyright  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 

BRINGING    DOWN    A    HUN 
(From  a  painting  by  Geoffrey  Watson) 


Incidents  and  Accidents  237 

escaped  their  first  charge  by  scooting  upward,  and 
skipped  for  my  home  field. 

The  enemy  escaped,  to  be  sure,  but  he  was  minus 
one-half  of  his  personnel. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OVER   THE   RAINBOW 

HAVE  you  ever  experienced  an  indescribable  feel- 
ing that  something  unusual  is  going  to  happen  soon, 
that  brings  with  it  an  unconscious  quickening  of  the 
pulse?  I  had  it  all  that  day,  although  there  was 
nothing  to  account  for  it.  After  my  return  from 
the  morning's  scrap  Captain  Azire  excused  me  until 
mid-afternoon,  but  said  that  we  would  go  up  in 
patrol  at  four  o'clock,  as  usual.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  words  or  manner  to  indicate  that  at  that  hour 
my  compatriots  were  going  to  make  their  first  "  over 
the  top  "  assault  on  the  entrenched  Boche,  nothing 
to  give  me  an  inkling  that  this  was  to  be  the 
memorable  day  when  the  Yanks  would  take  their 
first  stride  in  the  march  to  Berlin. 

We  all  knew  that  the  day  was  approaching;  but 
not  that  it  was  at  hand,  until  a  quarter  of  an  hour 

238 


Over  the  Rainbow  239 

before  the  time  when  we  were  to  go  up  for  our 
afternoon  police  work. 

At  three- forty-five  Captain  Azire  came  up  to  me 
as  I  stood  on  our  piste,  waiting  for  the  hour  to 
arrive,  and  said  in  the  quick,  decisive  manner  of  a 
French  officer,  "  Wellman,  at  four  o'clock  there  is 
to  be  an  attack  on  the  German  lines  and  the  Ameri- 
can troops  are  going  to  take  part.  You  are  to  fly 
as  leader  of  the  lowest  patrol  at  one  thousand 
meters.  I  am  giving  you  eight  other  machines  and 
our  own  second  patrol  will  be  just  above  you.  There 
will  be  still  other  patrols  from  all  the  flying  groups 
of  this  sector  at  all  the  prescribed  altitudes  up  to  six 
thousand  meters. 

"  These  are  your  orders.  Under  no  conditions 
will  you  allow  an  enemy's  machine  to  fty  over  the 
French  and  American  lines!  If  they  attack,  and 
your  machine  gun  jams,  ram  your  opponent! 

"  You  will  start  in  five  minutes." 

I  saluted,  and  he  turned  quickly  away. 

Even  now  the  memory  of  that  afternoon  is  dis- 
tinct in  my  mind,  down  to  the  smallest  details.  I 


240  Go,  Get  'Em! 


know  that,  when  he  left,  I  had  a  peculiar  feeling 
inside.  It  was  not  wholly  because  of  excitement, 
or  from  thought  of  the  importance  of  the  task  which 
had  been  assigned  to  me.  It  had  something  of  both 
of  those  things  in  it,  and,  added  to  them,  was  the 
uncomfortable  knowledge  that,  if  my  gun  did  jam, 
the  coming  flight  would  be  my  last.  It  could  have 
only  one  outcome  —  a  dead  Boche,  and  a  no  less 
dead  Wellman. 

Sensing  that  something  unusual  was  up,  all  of  the 
men  of  my  patrol  had  gathered  nearby  while  the 
captain  was  talking  to  me.  I  called  them  together, 
repeated  the  orders  which  I  had  just  received,  and 
added,  "  I  will  fly  as  usual  " —  which  meant  that  I 
was  to  lead  and  they  to  follow  in  a  vol  de  groupe, 
each  one  fifty  meters  behind  and  above  his  prede- 
cessor — "  I  will  make  my  turns  slowly  and  rely  on 
the  customary  signal  when  about  to  attack.  One 
thing  more.  Under  no  circumstances  are  any  of 
you  to  attack  until  I  give  that  signal." 

They  nodded  silently,  and  each  went  to  his  ma- 
chine. 


Over  the  Rainbow  241 

I  had  now  risen  to  the  estate  of  having  three 
mechanics,  and  with  their  aid  I  donned  my  combi- 
nation flying  suit  and  helmet,  and  got  into  my  plane, 
now  the  "  CELIA  V."  One  of  them  strapped  me 
securely  into  my  harness,  and  by  that  time  Captain 
Azire  had  approached  again  and  taken  his  stand  be- 
fore the  row  of  nine  machines,  which  stood  like  race 
horses  before  the  starting  line. 

"  Vous  etes  pret,  mon  Marechal  des  Logis  ?  "  he 
asked  of  me. 

"  Oui,  mon  Capitaine." 

He  nodded.  Our  several  mechanics  sprang 
smartly  to  the  propellers  and  yelled,  "  Coupe ! " 
All  of  us  pilots  cut  our  motors,  and  reduced  the 
gasoline. 

"Contact!" 

We  gave  them  the  spark  and  increased  the  juice. 
The  mechanics  gave  the  nine  propellers  a  whirl  and 
they  ceased  to  be  two  thin  blades  of  wood  and  be- 
came misty  circles. 

While  two  of  my  men  still  held  the  wings  I  tried 
out  my  engine,  and  found  it  ready.  All  the  others 


242  Go,  Get  'Em! 


were  doing  the  same,  and  the  air  was  vibrant  with 
the  whirr  and  clatter. 

A  command,  even  if  it  had  been  shouted  in  sten- 
torian tones,  would  not  have  reached  my  ears,  but 
I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  commander.  He  waved 
his  hand,  my  mechanics  removed  the  blocks  from 
beneath  the  wheels  of  my  plane,  jumped  aside,  and 
I  taxied  away  across  the  field,  pulled  back  on  my 
control  stick,  and  glided  lightly  into  the  air. 

The  others  followed,  and,  by  the  time  I  had 
reached  my  prescribed  altitude,  and  the  second  line 
trench,  they  were  arrayed  behind  me  in  battle  for- 
mation. Then  I  throttled  my  motor  down  until  I 
judged  by  its  sound  —  I  seldom  looked  at  the  indi- 
cator which  recorded  the  number  of  the  propeller's 
revolutions  —  that  I  was  creeping  along  at  a  snail's 
pace  of  about  a  hundred  miles  an  hour,  and  then 
began  my  three-mile  patrol  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth  over  the  line. 

High  above,  the  sky  was  the  cloudless  pale  blue 
of  early  Spring  —  almost  the  color  of  the  uniform 
I  wore.  In  its  mystical  transparency  it  faded  away 


Over  the  Rainbow  243 

into  an  infinity  which  made  the  little  things  of  cloth, 
wood  and  wire  seem  puny,  insignificant.  Neverthe- 
less the  void  above  my  head  was  now  almost  black 
with  them,  flying  in  files,  and  circling  like  flocks  of 
migratory  birds,  eight  a  thousand  meters  over  me, 
eight  more  another  thousand  up,  and  so,  up  and  up, 
until  I  could  see  the  topmost  group  nearly  three 
miles  in  altitude,  mere  black  specks  against  the 
blue. 

Below,  a  thousand  yards,  lay  the  far-stretching 
fields  of  glorious  France  and  inglorious  Germany, 
soft  green  in  their  new  verdure,  except  for  the  in- 
numerable ugly,  dark  scars  from  recent  wounds. 
To  the  north,  east  and  west  they  faded  away  into 
the  dimly  distant  horizon;  to  the  south  they  were 
walled  in  by  the  snow-capped  Vosges  Mountains, 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  sinking  rapidly  in  its  jour- 
ney westward. 

From  my  low  altitude  I  could  clearly  distinguish 
the  historic  little  gray  villages,  now  sadly  shattered 
and  desolate ;  the  roads,  despite  the  camouflage  over 
them  which  was  well  calculated  to  deceive  enemy 


244  Go>  Get  'Em! 


birdmen  who  were  flying  high  enough  to  be  out  of 
range  of  our  anti-aircraft  guns;  and  our  first,  sec- 
ond and  third  line  trenches,  stretching  north  and 
south  like  narrow  black  ribbons,  carelessly  unrolled. 

In  the  first  line,  just  beyond  where  I  was  flying, 
appeared  our  boys  and  those  of  our  ancient  ally, 
looking  like  the  tiny  tin  soldiers  of  babyhood  days. 
At  that  height  I  could  not  distinguish  them  apart; 
but  I  knew  that  the  Yanks  held  about  one  mile  in 
the  center,  and  that  the  poilus  flanked  them  on  either 
side. 

Eastward  I  could  see  other  parallel  lines  of 
black  —  the  German  trenches.  All  was  motionless 
there,  and  no  hostile  airplanes  were  in  sight. 

Indeed,  I  felt  that,  if  I  were  to  cut  off  my  motor, 
and  the  pilots  of  all  the  other  planes  behind  and 
above  me  were  to  do  the  same,  the  calm  and  silence 
would  have  been  like  that  of  a  Sunday  morning  at 
home  in  old  New  England. 

Suddenly,  just  as  the  hands  of  my  wrist  watch 
reached  the  hour  of  four  to  the  dot,  the  shell-scarred 
fields  below,  and  to  the  west,  were  filled  with  flashes 


Over  the  Rainbow  245 

of  flame,  belched  forth  by  guns  concealed  within 
those  ruined  villages,  shell  holes,  and  clumps  of 
what  had  once  been  living  trees.  I  could  not  see 
the  guns  themselves  —  more  camouflage  —  nor 
could  I  hear  their  crashing  detonations  over  the 
racket  which  my  motor  was  making,  but  I  knew  that 
the  preparatory  barrage  had  begun;  that  soon  the 
tiny  marionettes  below  would  be  on  their  fateful 
way  across  No-Man's-Land. 

The  thought  that  the  boys  from  home  were  about 
to  receive  their  baptism  of  fire  in  an  over-the-top 
attack  made  my  heart  beat  faster. 

This,  however,  was  not  all  that  I  was  thinking  as 
I  led  my  patrol  leisurely  back  and  forth  while  the 
shells  flew  by  beneath.  I  remembered  that  I  was 
the  only  American  in  the  air  at  that  time  and  place, 
and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  deep  regret  that  I  con- 
sidered this.  Only  one  American  serving  as  the  air 
guard  for  the  Americans  as  they  went  into  the  test 
battle,  and  he  in  a  French  machine,  a  French  uni- 
form, and  fighting  under  the  Tri-color,  and  not  the 
Stars  and  Stripes ! 


246  Go,  Get  'Em! 


There  was  not  long  given  me  for  such  delibera- 
tions. One  instant  the  eastern  air  was  clear  to  the 
horizon;  the  next  I  saw  a  cloud  of  black  specks,  like 
a  swarm  of  flies,  mounting  into  the  sky  over  there. 
Little  by  little  they  grew  larger,  assumed  the  form 
of  airplanes,  and  the  mass  separated  into  detached 
groups  at  altitudes  corresponding  to  ours. 

It  was  the  Boche ! 

Their  several  platoon  leaders  reached  the  second 
line  of  German  trenches,  a  thousand  yards  distant 
from  us,  and  turned  as  we  had.  Now  they  fell  into 
step  with  us.  Two  minutes,  that  seemed  like  as 
many  hours,  passed,  and  still  they  flew  back  and 
forth  in  lines  paralleling  our  own.  I  waited  tensely 
for  the  moment  when  one  of  them  should  have  the 
nerve  to  break  away  from  the  procession  and  start 
the  attack.  That  afternoon  we  were  to  defend 
merely. 

It  happened !  A  big  bi-place  Rumpler  broke  sud- 
denly from  the  lowest  group  directly  opposite  me. 
Closely  followed  by  a  protecting  escort  of  six  deadly 
little  Albatros  planes,  he  headed  toward  our  lines. 


Over  the  Rainbow  247 

The  gauntlet  was  thrown  down.  It  was  up  to  me 
to  accept  the  challenge. 

I  gave  the  signal  by  making  my  craft  rock  from 
side  to  side  rapidly,  and  dove,  with  my  eyes  fixed 
on  the  leader.  He  was  mine;  the  others  of  my 
patrol  by  common  consent  turned  their  attention  to 
the  escort.  I  flew  past  the  Rumpler  in  a  vertical 
dive  so  fast  that  its  gunner  had  not  a  chance  in  a 
million  to  "  get "  me,  then  swung  into  a  sharp 
"  Russian  Mountain "  and  sped  up  at  its  "  blind 
spot,"  faster  than  any  arrow.  The  battle  madness 
seized  hold  of  me,  and,  with  my  senses  in  its  exult- 
ant grip,  I  pressed  the  trigger  when  the  Hun  plane 
was  only  fifteen  yards  above  me,  and  three  con- 
verging streams  of  steel  poured  into  it.  I  passed 
like  a  flash;  but  not  before  I  had  seen  his  gunner 
drop  with  hands  dangling  over  the  side,  as  had  my 
victim  in  the  morning. 

The  Boche  was  doomed;  but  I  was  not  in  at  the 
kill  alone.  As  I  sped  skyward  I  saw  the  dark  flash 
of  another  Nieuport  diving  on  it,  and  by  the  num- 
ber knew  that  it  held  Ruamps,  one  of  my  French 


248  Go,  Get  'Em! 


comrades,  and  I  knew,  too,  that  he  had  disposed  of 
his  first  adversary,  and  had  come  to  help  me  with 
the  more  powerful  machine. 

Ruamps'  gun  spit  fire,  and,  on  his  first  attack,  he 
killed  the  pilot.  As  I  turned  my  plane,  and  glanced 
downward  to  determine  my  position  before  making 
another  attack,  I  saw  the  Rumpler,  already  in 
flames,  tumbling  over  and  over  earthwards.  Into 
No-Man's-Land  it  crashed,  to  direct  no  shell  fire 
against  our  boys  that  day. 

The  end  of  my  first  attack  had  left  me  at  eight 
hundred  meters'  altitude,  flying  free,  and  —  looking 
about  me  —  I  saw  another  Boche  just  below  and 
headed  into  France. 

The  words  of  my  orders  echoed  in  my  mind, 
"  Under  no  circumstances  will  you  allow  an  enemy's 
machine  to  cross  over  the  French  and  American 
lines." 

Pulling  on  my  control  stick,  I  shot  upwards  to 
gain  more  altitude,  performed  a  renversement,  and 
was  in  a  perfect  attacking  position  above  my  new 
opponent.  He  must  be  downed,  immediately.  I 


Over  the  Rainbow  249 

was  on  the  point  of  starting  my  dive  when,  behind 
me,  and  above  the  deafening  racket  of  my  own 
motor,  I  heard  a  rapid  "  clack,  clack,  clack,"  like  the 
quick  clapping  of  hands.  I  knew  the  sound.  It 
was  that  of  a  mitrailleuse,  and  the  question  as  to 
whether  it  was  mounted  on  the  plane  of  friend  or 
foe  was  speedily  answered,  for  a  streak  of  flame 
flashed  past  my  machine,  just  to  the  left.  The 
Boche  that  shot  that  "  tracer  "  bullet  had  almost  got 
my  exact  range. 

A  hasty  glance  over  my  shoulder  showed  him  to 
me,  diving  almost  vertically  toward  the  tail  of  my 
machine.  There  was  not  a  fraction  of  a  second  to 
be  lost.  He  had  me,  just  as  Geigl  had,  and,  profit- 
ing by  my  previous  experience,  I  went  into  an  in- 
stantaneous side  wing-slip.  The  Albatros  passed 
me  like  a  shot,  did  a  vertical  virage  and  headed  for 
home. 

I  was  safely  out  of  the  trap,  and,  as  my  other 
enemy  was  still  below,  and  a  quick  survey  of  the 
air  above  showed  me  that  I  had  nothing  further  to 
fear  from  that  quarter,  I  made  my  postponed  dive. 


250  Go,  Get  'Em! 


I  reserved  my  fire,  so  as  to  make  a  sure  thing  of 
it  this  time,  and  I  was  within  twenty-five  feet  of  him 
before  he  saw  me  coming.  Then  he  showed  his 
skill  by  diving  perpendicularly  in  turn,  and,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  that  I  was  following,  pulled  his  machine 
up  into  the  beginning  of  a  loop-the-loop.  Perhaps 
he  thought  that  I  would  be  caught  by  this  trick  and 
pass  below  him  so  that  he  could  get  me  from  above, 
and  behind,  at  the  finish  of  his  turn.  If  so,  he  was 
wrong.  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  been  so  quick  to 
think  and  act  as  I  was  that  afternoon  under  the 
stress  of  the  battle,  and,  as  soon  as  I  saw  him 
turn  upwards,  I  did  the  same  and  looped  after 
him. 

When  he  was  at  the  top  of  his  turn,  flying  head 
downward,  and  I  was  speeding  up  from  beneath,  not 
quite  upside  down  myself,  but  with  the  nose  of  my 
plane  pointing  dead  at  him,  I  pressed  the  trigger. 
My  three  guns  belched  their  intermittent  fire,  and, 
as  I  rushed  past  the  Boche,  I  saw  him,  quite  clearly, 
crumple  up  in  a  heap,  the  expression  of  hate  frozen 
on  his  face.  Out  of  control,  his  plane  went  spin- 


Over  the  Rainbow  251 

ning  down,  and  fell,  a  tangled  mass  of  wreckage, 
almost  in  the  American  first  line  of  trenches. 

Righting  my  own  plane  by  means  of  the  useful 
wing  slip,  I  surveyed  the  scene  about  me.  Flyers 
there  were,  everywhere;  but  they  were  all  French 
and  most  of  them  bore  the  Black  Cat  insignia.  The 
enemy  was  vanquished,  completely  beaten  and  fled. 

I  checked  my  motor  and  glided  gently  down  to  a 
level  of  a  bare  three  hundred  meters  above  the  bat- 
tlefield, where  I  could  watch  what  was  happening 
below,  in  safety,  for  the  barrage  had  ended. 

Just  beneath  me  was  a  long  line  of  broad  brimmed 
steel  helmets  of  dull  yellow.  A  little  farther  to  the 
left  the  helmets  were  smaller  and  changed  their 
color  to  dull  blue.  I  saw  the  diminutive  figures 
clad  in  khaki  and  horizon  blue  scramble  out  of  the 
trench  and  start  eastward  over  the  torn-up  ground 
of  No-Man's-Land.  They  seemed  to  me  to  move, 
oh,  so  slowly.  Their  pace  appeared  suicidal. 
Here  and  there  the  sun  glinted  on  a  gleaming  bay- 
onet and  I  caught  the  tiny  flash  of  light. 

The  Yanks,  and  their  brave  allies,  the  poilus, 


252  Go,  Get  'Em! 


were  on  their  way  into  Germany,  and  I  devoutly 
wished  them  the  best  of  luck  on  their  trip 

My  companions  and  I  had  done  our  little  bit ;  the 
air  was  clear  of  hostile  planes ;  and  the  rest  was  up 
to  them. 

For  a  moment  or  two  I  watched  the  strange  game 
taking  place  on  the  checker  board  below,  gripped  by 
the  fascination  of  it;  but  then  a  glance  at  my  dial 
showed  me  that  my  gas  was  getting  dangerously 
low  and  I  regretfully  turned  the  nose  of  my  plane 
westward  in  a  wide  circle,  and  headed  for  home. 

Others  were  doing  the  same.  The  game  was 
over,  as  far  as  we  were  concerned.  As  I  landed, 
Captain  Azire  came  towards  me  at  a  walk  that  was 
more  than  half  a  run,  and,  before  my  mechanics 
could  help  me  out,  he  had  grasped  my  hand  and 
said  that  he  had  already  received  word  by  telephone 
that  an  observation  balloon  and  two  observers,  near 
the  front,  had  reported  that  a  Nieuport  bearing  a 
Black  Cat  and  numbered  "  10  "  had  brought  down 
two  machines  during  the  fight.  "  Number  10  " — 
as  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  — was  the  "  CELIA  V." 


Over  the  Rainbow  253 

Ruamps  had  accounted  for  another  and  a  fourth 
Boche  paid  the  final  toll.  But  one  French  airman 
had  been  called  upon  that  afternoon  to  sacrifice  his 
life,  and  Escadrille  N.  87  had  suffered  no  casualties. 

It  was  a  great  day,  a  wonderful  day  for  us  all, 
and  especially  for  me;  but  I  was  too  overwhelm- 
ingly happy,  and  too  tired,  to  respond  to  his  words 
of  congratulation,  as  he  wrung  my  hand  again  and 
again. 

At  seven-thirty  that  evening,  while  we  were  hav- 
ing a  dinner  in  celebration,  with  champagne  in 
honor  of  the  day's  achievements,  and  all  of  us  were 
as  happy  as  boys  at  home  after  a  football  victory, 
an  orderly  entered,  carrying  a  piece  of  paper,  saluted 
Captain  Azire,  who  was  dining  with  us,  and  handed 
it  to  him. 

He  glanced  at  the  message,  smiled  happily,  and  — 
calling  for  silence  —  read  aloud  the  words,  "  The 
French  and  American  troops  have  this,  afternoon 
taken  three  lines  of  the  enemy's  trenches." 

There  was  a  mad  outburst  of  cheers  and  yells. 
We  all  sprang  to  our  feet  and  began  an  Apache 


254  Go>  Get  ' 


dance;  but  he  demanded  silence  again,  and  read  an 
additional  sentence,  "  The  Americans  conducted 
themselves  in  a  most  courageous  manner." 

Again  the  chorus  of  yells  rang  out,  and  this  time 
my  voice  was  raised  above  all  the  rest,  for  the  boys 
of  the  Rainbow  Division  who  had  been  tried  and 
not  found  wanting. 

i-As  a  result  of  his  achievement  in  bringing  down  two 
planes  within  a  few  minutes  of  each  other  on  the  afternoon 
of  March  ninth,  Marechal  des  Logis  Wellman  received  an- 
other gold  palm  leaf  on  his  Croix  de  Guerre,  and  the  follow- 
ing citation,  which  included  recognition  for  two  victories  won 
previously : 

"Le  Pilote  Americain  Marechal  des  Logis  Wellman, 
William  Augustus,  pilote  de  chasse,  montrant  les  plus  belles 
qualites  d'audace  et  d'ardeur  offensive. 

"Le  20  Janvier,  ayant  pris  un  bi-plane  ennemi  en  chasse 
au-dessus  Nancy,  le  poursuit  jusqu'a  son  terrain  a  plus  de  25 
kilometres  dans  les  lignes,  mitraillant  a  bout  port  les 
hangars  et  tuant  le  pilote. 

"  Le  TO  fevrier,  mitraille  a  faible  altitude  un  terrain  d'avi- 
ation  ennemi. 

"Le  9  mars,  abat  un  bi-plane  ennemi  de  regulage  dans  la 

region  de  P ,  et  presqu'immediatement  pres  abat  un  des 

monoplace  ennemi  d'escorte." — EDITOR. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HITS   AND    MISSES 

AFTER  this  memorable  day  there  came  a  lull. 
Something  more  than  a  week  passed  by,  spent  in 
uneventful  flying,  and  my  life  settled  back  into  the 
old  routine.  I  continued  to  fly  alone  —  almost  a 
free  lance  —  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  Within 
certain  limits  I  was  my  own  dictator,  so  long  as  I 
kept  within  the  scope  of  duty,  which  was  to  guard 
our  front  from  attack  by  air,  and  protect  it  from 
hostile  observation  machines. 

On  "  St.  Patrick's  day  in  the  morning  "  I  went 
aloft  soon  after  dawn,  and,  as  the  sun  climbed  up, 
too,  and  with  his  rays  swept  away  the  light  vapors 
which  departing*  night  had  left  behind,  I  decided  to 
vary  my  uninteresting  cruise  up  and  down  behind 
our  lines  by  making  a  sightseeing  excursion  into  the 

255 


256  Go,  Get  'Em! 


enemy's  country.  My  objective  was  Mittersheim, 
an  aviation  field  some  eighteen  miles  back  of  the 
Hun  front  lines,  and  in  the  vicinity  of  the  spot 
where  Tom  had  been  wounded  and  captured 

Flying  after  the  manner*  of  Geigl  at  the  fairly 
high  altitude  of  sixty-five  hundred  meters,  from 
which  height  the  earth  begins  to  lose  its  details  and 
take  on  the  appearance  of  a  topographical  map,  not 
unlike  those  which  you  are  now  seeing  in  illustrated 
weeklies,  I  flew  until  I  had  arrived  at  a  point  about 
three  and  a  half  miles  over  the  aviation  field  which 
was  my  destination. 

Far*  beneath  me  it  appeared,  a  diminutive  patch 
of  light  green  bordered  by  threadlike  lines  of  black, 
— ithe  trenches — and  covered  on  one  side  with 
square  pinheads  of  light  gray  which  I  knew  were 
the  hangars.  Nearer  me,  by  a  thousand  yards,  were 
three  toy  machines  circling  leisurely  about,  and  I 
was  sure  that  they  were  German,  since  the 
"  Archies  "  on  the  field  had  nothing  to  say  to  them. 

The  odds  were  rather  against  me,  and  were  in- 
creased by  the  fact  that  I  was  far  into  German  ter- 


Hits  and  Misses  257 

ritory;  but  the  call  of  battle  was  too  strong  to  be 
withstood  that  morning.  It  set  my  blood  a-tingle, 
and  with  its  chant  ringing  in  my  ears  I  slipped  into 
a  moderate  pique  dive,  with  my  motor  still  going, 
and  approached  them  as  a  cat  would  three  mice  at 
play. 

Strangely  enough,  I  managed  to  get  within  five 
hundred  yards  of  them  before  I,  or  my  true  nation- 
ality, was  discovered.  Then  their  leader  sensed 
something  wrong,  and  signaled  to  the  other  two  in 
the  usual  way. 

It  was  now  one  of  two  things  for  me  —  fight  or 
flight. 

I  made  up  my  mind  instantly,  looked  above  and 
about,  to  make  sure  that  the  air  was  free  of  other 
hostile  craft,  and  then  went  into  a  vertical  dive  as 
straight  as  an  arrow  for  the  last  of  the  trio,  who 
were  speeding  away  as  fast  as  their  wings  could 
carry  them. 

At  my  superior  altitude  I  had  complete  mastery 
of  the  situation,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  and, 
rushing  downward,  I  gave  him  my  full  gunfire  fair 


258  Go,  Get  'Em! 


and  square  from  the  point-blank  range  of  fifteen 
yards. 

The  pilot  toppled,  and  his  plane  fell  into  the  spin- 
ning nose  dive  that  almost  always  presages  a  plum- 
met drop  to  earth  in  ruins.  Satisfied  that  I  had 
accounted  for  him,  I  made  a  quick  "  Russian  Moun- 
tain "  in  order  to  regain  my  altitude  over  the  other 
two. 

I  was  successful,  turned  and  dove  again,  to  be 
mixed  up  in  a  "  free-for-all "  with  both  of  them,  a 
minute  later.  At  my  first  shot  the  one  on  the  right 
slid  off  into  a  wing  slip,  apparently  the  recipient  of 
my  bullet,  and,  as  the  third  circled  away  and  headed 
for  home,  I  followed  the  other  down,  firing  all  the 
time,  and  had  the  glorious  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
plane  smash  into  a  big  open  field  below.  My  own 
spiral  swoop  carried  me  almost  to  the  ground,  and, 
as  I  straightened  out,  barely  thirty  feet  above  it, 
I  could  plainly  see  my  first  victim  lying  motionless 
amid  the  twisted  wreckage  which  had  been  his  ma- 
chine a  few  moments  before. 

The  fight  and  victory  had  heated  my  blood  to  the 


Hits  and  Misses  259 

fever  point,  and  I  believe  that  I  actually  became  de- 
lirious for  the  time  being,  for,  instead  of  doing  the 
logical  thing,  and  making  good  my  escape  from  a 
scrape  from  which  luck  had  extricated  me  tempo- 
rarily, I  continued  to  fly  at  the  dangerously  low  alti- 
tude of  a  hundred  meters.  And,  as  I  flew,  I  shot 
at  every  German  military  thing  my  eyes  fell  upon. 

The  roads  were  all  camouflaged  by  the  erection 
of  strips  of  painted  cheese  cloth  suspended  above 
them  by  poles;  but  they  were  plainly  visible  to  me 
from  that  height,  and  into  auto  trucks,  artillery  and 
advancing  bodies  of  troops  I  poured  my  fire  as  I 
sailed  above  them.  I  was  on  the  warpath,  and  again 
shouting  like  an  Indian. 

My  mad  escapade  ended  by  my  turning  and 
sweeping  along  the  first  line  trench,  upon  the  occu- 
pants of  which  I  expended  my  few  remaining  cart- 
ridges. Not  a  single  one  was  left  when  I  reached 
home,  unscathed. 

The  captain  was  on  hand  to  demand  a  report  of 
what  I  had  been  up  to,  and,  although  he  repeated 
the  familiar  phrase,  "  Tous  les  Americains  sont 


260  Go,  Get  'Em! 


fous,"  he  smiled  delightedly  as  he  said  it,  and  at 
once  telephoned  to  all  the  outlying  observation  posts, 
to  find  out  if  my  fight  had  been  officially  witnessed. 

It  had  not,  of  course,  having  occurred  too  far  into 
Germany,  so  I  got  no  credit  on  the  books  for  my 
double  victory.  But  I  scarcely  cared.  The  fight 
itself  brought  satisfaction  enough. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  another  wave  of  ad- 
ventures, and  the  next  one  occurred  the  following 
morning. 

Again  there  had  been  coming  reports  from  a  dis- 
trict a  little  to  the  north  of  us  to  the  effect  that  a 
Boche  bi-place  machine  had  been  making  trips  over 
the  French  lines  to  take  "  regulage  " —  that  is,  direct 
the  fire  of  the  artillery  —  and  for  several  days  I  had 
been  making  little  jaunts  in  that  direction  in  the 
hope  of  waylaying  it,  but  without  success.  Its 
presence  had  been  again  signaled  on  the  day  when 
I  was  paying  my  call  on  Mittersheim,  but  I  had  been 
"  otherwise  engaged."  This  morning,  however,  I 
set  out  with  a  definite  purpose  in  view.  I  was  going 
to  "  get  "  the  Boche,  if  he  put  in  an  appearance. 


Hits  and  Misses  261 

The  morning  was  clear,  with  a  moderate  wind, 
and  I  went  up  to  three  thousand  meters  and  slipped 
leisurely  along,  well  behind  the  French  lines,  wait- 
ing for  the  enemy  to  put  in  an  appearance. 

An  hour  passed  without  a  sign  of  him,  or  any- 
thing happening  to  break  the  monotony  of  my  self 
appointed  patrol;  but,  just  as  I  was  about  to  start 
back  for  the  field,  I  saw  him  coming.  His  plane 
was  flying  swiftly  into  France  at  not  more  than  eight 
hundred  meters  from  the  ground. 

To  my  astonishment  he  came  directly  on  toward 
a  point  almost  beneath  me.  Either  he  had  not 
caught  sight  of  me  at  all,  or  was  relying  upon  his 
own  excellent  camouflage  to  conceal  him  from  my 
sight.  Indeed,  it  might  have,  if  I  had  not  been  on 
the  keen  lookout  for  him,  so  remarkably  did  his 
machine  blend  with  the  earth  below. 

When  he  had  obligingly  entered  the  trap  which 
I  had  laid  for  him,  I  piqued  and  then  started  a  verti- 
cal dive  directly  behind  him.  At  the  same  instant 
the  pilot  saw  me  coming,  made  a  quick  vertical 
virage  and  headed  for  home.  My  falcon  swoop 


262  Go,  Get  'Em! 


brought  me  below  him,  just  over  No-Man's-Land 
and,  doing  a  "  Russian  Mountain  "  and  renverse- 
ment,  I  fired  several  shots,  and  then  went  into  a  side 
wing-slip  to  save  myself  from  continuing  upward 
and  passing  close  to  him,  which  would  have  given 
his  gunner  a  clean  shot  at  me  Would  have  —  that 
is  —  if  he  had  been  alive  to  take  advantage  of  it; 
but,  as  I  sped  away,  and  upward  to  regain  my  alti- 
tude, I  saw  that  my  gunfire  had  ended  his  fighting 
days  forever. 

Repeating  the  same  procedure  I  attacked  again 
and  again  without  scoring  a  decisive  hit,  and  by  the 
time  I  was  ready  to  start  my  fifth  dive  we  were  both 
well  into  German  territory,  although  I  scarcely  real- 
ized it  in  my  deep  absorption. 

Just  as  I  pushed  my  control  stick  forward  to 
lower  my  rear  ailerons  and  shoot  downward,  I  heard 
the  spiteful  banging  of  a  mitrailleuse,  and  simul- 
taneously a  tell-tale  streak  of  light  passed  from  the 
rear  almost  between  the  planes  of  my  machine.  It 
was  a  "  tracer  "  bullet,  of  course,  and  brought  a 
pointed  warning  that  more  company  had  arrived. 


Hits  and  Misses  263 

My  head  flew  around  and  I  saw  a  pair  of  Alba- 
tros  machines  above  and  behind  me,  all  set  for  an 
attack.  Now  I  dove  with  a  double  purpose.  I 
planned  instantly  to  use  my  original  enemy  as  a 
shield,  if  possible,  and,  with  this  in  view,  I  ma- 
neuvered to  get  fairly  close  beneath  him.  Then,  by 
watching  the  movement  of  his  rudder  and  rear 
ailerons,  and  duplicating  it  exactly,  I  followed  his 
every  turn,  and,  being  the  more  speedy,  kept  creep- 
ing closer  and  closer  all  the  time. 

I  had  him  in  a  corner,  and  was  taking  no  chances 
by  firing  before  I  was  certain  of  making  my  shot 
tell. 

Then,  just  as  my  finger  was  curving  about  the 
trigger,  one  of  the  Albatros  planes  dove  past  me, 
brushing  by  so  close  that  I  might  almost  have 
reached  out  and  touched  him.  He  failed  to  distract 
my  attention,  however;  my  mitrailleuse  spoke  and 
called  the  pilot  into  eternity.  The  big  machine 
turned  sharply,  like  an  animal  which  has  received 
its  death  wound,  and,  out  of  control,  went  spinning 
down  to  destruction. 


264  Goi  Get  'Em! 


Quite  content  to  let  well  enough  alone  this  time, 
I  started  a  spiral  climb  by  means  of  which  I  quickly 
outdistanced  the  other  two,  although  one  of  them 
made  a  futile  attack  before  I  got  wholly  free. 

This  was  my  third  unofficial  victory  in  two  days, 
for  it,  too,  had  occurred  too  far  behind  the  Hun 
lines  to  have  been  observed  and  recorded  in  my 
favor. 

The  final  fight  of  my  brief  flying  career  at  that 
time  took  place  about  a  week  later.  I  was  patrol- 
ling alone  as  usual,  and  was  over  No-Man's-Land 
when  I  came  upon  a  monoplane  Boche  plane  doing 
the  same  stunt. 

His  machine  was  an  Albatros,  and  in  speed  and 
gunfire  almost  exactly  equal  to  mine.  He  also 
turned  out  to  be  my  equal,  either  in  efficiency  or 
inefficiency,  as  the  case  may  have  been,  and  for 
fully  twenty  minutes  we  maneuvered  about  one  an- 
other, doing  all  the  tricks  known  to  aviation  and 
apparently  having  chances  innumerable  to  dispatch 
one  another.  Every  one  of  them  went  to  waste, 
and  at  last  I  fired  my  final  cartridge  and  turned 


Hits  and  Misses  265 

toward  home,  fully  expecting  him  to  pursue  and 
make  the  most  of  his  opportunity. 

Instead,  he,  too,  turned  homeward,  and  I  con- 
cluded that  he,  like  myself,  had  exhausted  his  am- 
munition. And  as  we  parted  we  waved  each  other 
farewell. 

Probably  he  was  hoping,  as  I  was,  that  we  might 
meet  another  time  and  try  our  rivalry  out  to  a  con- 
clusion. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TWO    MIRACLES 

IT  is  not  every  man  who  can  say  that,  in  one  day, 
he  was  the  victim  of  one  miracle,  and  had  his  life 
saved  by  another.  I  can,  truthfully;  but  the  com- 
bination put  a  sudden  end  to  my  flying  —  tempo- 
rarily, at  least. 

This  happened  on  the  twenty-first  day  of  March, 
just  about  four  months  after  I  had  started  my  real 
work.  The  day  dawned  gloriously,  giving  no  pre- 
monition that  it  had  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
in  store  for  me,  and  I  completed  an  uneventful 
morning  patrol  and  was  up  in  the  air  again  about 
four  in  the  afternoon.  Over  the  American  trenches 
and  No-Man's-Land  I  flew  with  no  particular  object 
in  view,  other  than  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for 
Boche  machines.  None  were  in  sight,  which  was 
not  at  all  unusual,  for  at  this  time  we  had  a  fair 

266 


Two  Miracles  267 


control  of  the  air  in  our  sector  and  they  seldom 
bothered  us,  unless  there  was  some  special  reason 
for  so  doing. 

In  fact  everything  was  quiet,  above  and  below, 
and  the  earth  seemed  wrapped  in  Springtime  som- 
nambulance.  Back  and  forth  I  flew  at  an  altitude 
of  fifty-three  hundred  meters,  guiding  my  plane  by 
instinct  as  you  might  a  bicycle,  and  thinking  of 
almost  everything  but  war,  and  personal  danger. 
There  was  no  enemy  in  the  air  to  attract  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  had  long  since  ceased  to  worry  about  the 
"  Archies. "  These  anti-aircraft  guns  were  a  stand- 
ing joke  with  us,  as  I  have  said.  As  a  method  of 
keeping  airplanes  at  a  respectable  distance  from 
earth  by  means  of  a  barrage  of  bursting  shrapnel 
they  are  of  some  value;  but  an  actual  hit  by  them 
is  nothing  short  of  a  miracle,  which  is  hardly 
strange  when  one  considers  the  diminutive  size  and 
the  tremendous  speed  of  the  airy  target  at  which 
they  have  to  fire. 

Then,  with  the  utmost  unexpectedness,  occurred 
the  first  miracle. 


268  Go,  Get  'Em! 


Out  of  the  clear  sky  came  a  blinding  flash  in  my; 
face;  a  crashing  detonation  in  my  ears.  Half- 
stunned  for  a  second,  I  closed  my  eyes,  then  opened 
them  to  a  realization  that  my  plane  was  pointing 
perpendicularly  downward  and  spinning  rapidly. 
A  solitary  shell  from  a  Boche  "Archie"  had  ex- 
ploded directly  in  front  of  me  and  into  the  hole 
which  it  had  torn  in  the  air  my  machine  had  dived 
automatically. 

It  took  me  a  perceptible  amount  of  time  to  get  my 
mind  sufficiently  cleared  of  the  daze  which  the  ex- 
plosion had  brought,  so  that  I  could  rightly  under- 
stand what  had  happened.  Then  I  concluded  that 
I  was  neither  dead  nor  injured,  and  —  thanking  my 
lucky  star  for  another  narrow  escape  —  I  cut  off 
my  motor  and  drew  back  my  control  stick  to  bring 
my  plane  out  of  its  plunging  descent. 

Nothing  happened.  With  a  feeling  merely  of 
utter  surprise,  I  tried  again.  Still  I  continued  to 
rush  earthward,  head  first  and  whirling.  The  aw- 
ful truth  began  to  dawn  upon  me.  I  looked  around 
and  upward  at  the  tail  of  my  fuselage.  Part  of  the 


Two  Miracles  269 


canvas  there  was  flapping  violently,  and  now  the 
full  terrifying  fact  rushed  over  my  mind.  The  Hy- 
ing shrapnel  had  scored  a  clean  hit.  My  back  con- 
trol wires  were  shot  away,  my  rear  ailerons  were 
out  of  commission,  and  I  was  completely  helpless. 

Below  me,  still  nearly  three  miles  distant,  but  ris- 
ing with  appalling  speed,  was  the  hard  earth.  I 
needed  no  one  to  tell  me  what  was  going  to  happen 
in  a  few  seconds  when  we  two  met. 

There  may  be  men  who  can  face  the  prospect  of 
certain  and  immediate  death  with  cool  courage  and 
unconcern;  if  so,  I  am  not  of  their  number.  I  was 
so  frightened  that  for  an  instant  all  my  physical 
powers  became  as  weak  as  water,  and  I  discovered 
the  truth  of  the  saying  that  the  events  of  a  drown- 
ing man's  past  life  flash  before  his  mind.  Cer- 
tainly I  thought  of  a  whole  lot  of  sins  of  omission 
and  commission  that  my  past  held;  I  thought  of  my 
little  mother  at  home,  and  I  prayed,  not  as  the 
scribes  do,  but  with  my  whole  heart. 

Then  a  friendly  current  of  air  —  sent,  perhaps, 
in  answer  to  that  prayer,  who  knows?  —  changed 


270  Go,  Get  'Em! 


my  spinning  nose  dive  into  a  sweeping  spiral,  for 
my  side  controls  were  all  right;  but,  from  a  height 
of  twenty-five  hundred  meters,  I  continued  to  speed 
downward,  helpless,  and  although  a  little  slower 
than  before,  no  less  inexorably. 

I  was  in  the  clutch  of  circumstances  over  which 
no  mortal  could  possibly  have  any  contol,  and  the 
utter  helplessness  of  my  position  now  brought  a  men- 
tal reaction.  My  prayers  turned  to  profanity,  and 
I  raged  impotently  against  the  Fate  toward  which 
I  was  rushing. 

The  drift  of  the  light  wind  was,  I  saw,  carrying 
me  northwestward,  and  by  the  time  my  machine 
had  almost  reached  the  ground  it  was  over  the  forest 
of  Parroy. 

Close  above  a  forest  there  is  almost  always  a 
layer  of  dead  air.  So  it  was  that  day,  and  when 
my  plane  reached  it  and  I  felt  that  my  last  second 
had  come,  its  nose  shot  upward  and  the  spiral  turned 
into  a  side  wing-slip.  Instantly  there  came  to  me 
the  thought  that  I  might  yet  have  a  chance  for  life, 
and  I  banged  my  fist  against  the  fastening  of  my 


Two  Miracles  271 


belt.  It  sprang  open,  liberating  me,  and  at  the  same 
instant  I  felt  my  machine  strike  with  terrific  force 
among  the  tree  tops. 

Whether  I  voluntarily  jumped  free  of  it,  or  was 
thrown  out  by  the  shock,  I  cannot  say;  but,  as  the 
most  of  it  went  on  earthward  with  a  sound  of  tear- 
ing canvas  and  snapping  wood,  to  crash,  rent  and 
shattered,  on  the  ground  beneath,  I  remained  cling- 
ing to  one  of  the  topmost  boughs  of  a  big  fir  tree. 

For  a  second  I  was  again  too  dazed  to  realize 
the  truth  —  then  came  the  knowledge  that  I  was  still 
alive,  saved  from  a  death  which  had  seemed  inevita- 
ble, by  a  second  miracle. 

Now  there  came  a  torturing  pain  in  my  back, 
which  had  been  struck  and  badly  wrenched,  and  a 
feeling  of  complete  weakness  and  nausea. 

I  could  scarcely  move,  but  I  could  not  stay  where 
I  was,  in  a  most  unpleasant  and  still  precarious 
position,  and,  with  much  difficulty,  and  very  slowly, 
I  half  slid,  half  scrambled  down  the  life-saving 
tree. 

Every  movement  brought  a  new  stab  of  pain,  my 


272  Go,  Get  'Em! 


back  felt  so  weak  that  I  thought  it  was  broken,  and 
I  had  to  clinch  my  teeth  and  make  a  determined 
mental  effort  in  order  to  keep  going;  but  I  reached 
the  ground  at  last,  and  sank  down  beside  the  wreck 
of  the  "  CELIA  V,"  for  a  time  too  overcome  by 
pain  and  weakness  even  to  be  thankful. 

At  a  distance  I  heard  the  sound  of  running  feet 
and  excited  voices  calling  to  me,  but  I  could  not 
answer  them.  Something  seemed  to  be  stinging 
near  my  eye.  I  mechanically  put  my  hand  to  the 
place,  and  brought  it  away  covered  with  blood. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  realized  that  I  had  been 
injured  other  than  in  my  back,  and  I  found  out 
later  that  a  piece  of  the  shrapnel  had  struck  and  im- 
bedded itself  in  my  nose,  not  more  than  an  eighth 
of  an  inch  from  the  eyeball. 

When  the  five  or  six  poilus,  who  had  witnessed 
my  fall,  arrived  on  the  scene,  they  found  me  on  my 
hands  and  knees,  too  weak  to  speak.  I  felt  them 
pick  me  up  and  lay  me  on  my  back,  then  a  black 
wave  swept  over  me  and  I  lost  consciousness. 

When  I  came  to,  it  was  to  look  up  into  the  faces 


Two  Miracles  273 


of  a  French  army  doctor  and  two  French  nurses. 
One  was  bathing  my  head  and  stroking  it  gently. 
I  shall  never  see  a  nurse's  uniform  without  blessing 
it.  They  tried  to  keep  me  down,  but  I  insisted  upon 
sitting  up  immediately,  and  did  it,  too,  although  I 
felt  mighty  dizzy. 

"  Your  back  received  a  pretty  bad  wrench  and 
blow,"  said  the  physician,  kindly.  "  How  do  you 
feel?" 

"  I  feel  fine,"  I  answered,  with  the  assistance  of 
the  nurses  struggling  to  my  feet.  And  although 
they  wanted  to  summon  an  ambulance  to  take  me 
home,  I  refused. 

The  doctor  aided  me  to  a  dugout  under  a  ruined 
stone  farmhouse  near  the  third  line  trenches,  from 
which  I  telephoned  to  our  field  for  a  motor  car  to 
come  and  get  me.  It  arrived  at  length,  and,  as  I 
still  insisted  that  I  was  all  right,  and  really  felt 
fairly  well,  he  let  me  go  alone.  I  was  driven  up 
to  the  Pilotage,  walked  in  and  saluted  Captain 
Azire,  saying,  "  Mon  Capitaine,  I  have  to  report  that 
I  have  just  been  shot  down  by  an  anti-aircraft  gun 


274  Go>  Get  'Em! 


from  fifty-three  hundred  meters  over  the  forest  of 
Parroy." 

He  looked  at  me  in  amazement,  and  answered, 
"  Mon  Dieu.  Are  you  badly  hurt?  Do  you  want 
me  to  send  for  our  doctor  ?  " 

"  No,  my  captain,  I'm  all  right,  but  my  beautiful 
plane  is  a  complete  wreck."  I  told  him  where  he 
could  locate  it,  and  he  said  that  if  I  were  sure  I  did 
not  need  attention,  he  would  motor  out  at  once  and 
look  it  over. 

Leaving  him,  I  went  at  once  to  my  room  in  the 
chateau,  which  I  now  had  all  to  myself,  called  my 
orderly  and,  with  his  aid,  undressed  and  got  into 
bed.  Now  I  was  beginning  to  feel  very  weak 
again,  and  rather  strange  inside.  The  orderly 
rubbed  my  back  with  alcohol,  and  from  five  o'clock 
—  the  hour  at  which  I  turned  in  —  until  daylight 
the  next  morning  I  tried  to  sleep,  but  the  pain  in 
my  back  increased  steadily  until  my  suffering  was 
severe.  Then  the  orderly  put  in  his  appearance, 
brought  me  bread  and  butter  and  chocolate,  and  I 
got  him  to  give  my  back  another  rub. 


Two  Miracles  275 


Captain  Azire  came  to  see  me  early  that  morn- 
ing, and,  finding  me  unable  to  get  up,  and  consider- 
ably worse  than  I  had  allowed  him  to  suspect,  or 
had,  indeed,  suspected  myself,  he  sent  for  the  doc- 
tor connected  with  our  Corps. 

The  latter  came,  gave  me  a  thorough  examina- 
tion, a  rub  and  a  sleeping  powder  and  told  me  to 
remain  in  bed  until  I  felt  strong  enough  to  travel. 
"  Then,"  he  said,  "  you  must  go  and  see  Dr.  Tuf- 
fier,  the  famous  Parisian  surgeon."  During  that 
day,  and  each  which  followed,  my  comrades  came  in 
to  visit  me  whenever  they  were  off  duty,  and  told 
me  all  about  what  was  happening,  but  they  carefully 
refrained  from  discussing  my  accident,  other  than 
to  congratulate  me  upon  my  luck  in  being  alive. 

It  was  three  days  before  I  had  strength  and  am- 
bition enough  to  get  up  and  make  the  journey  to 
Paris,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  the  city  I  felt  so 
weak  and  rocky  again  that  it  was  about  all  that 
I  could  do  to  crawl  from  the  train  to  a  taxicab  and 
direct  the  driver  to  take  me  to  the  doctor's  hospital. 

The  name  "  Tuffier  "  is  well  known  in  France, 


276  Go,  Get  'Em! 


for  the  surgeon  is  one  of  the  world's  leading  au- 
thorities on  lung  wounds.  I  was  ushered  at  once 
into  the  office  of  that  distinguished-looking,  elderly 
marvel,  and  had  the  honor,  after  he  had  made  an 
examination  of  me,  of  being  taken  by  him  through 
part  of  the  hospital,  in  one  room  of  which  he 
showed  me  a  famous  "  case,"  a  poilu  who  had  been 
shot  through  the  lung,  and  whose  right  breast  was 
all  laid  open  and  rilled  with  tubes  for  breathing  and 
drainage.  When  I  looked  on  that  horribly  shat- 
tered man,  who,  the  Doctor  said,  would  live,  al- 
though a  few  years  before  he  would  have  been 
doomed  with  such  a  wound,  I  felt  almost  ashamed 
of  my  own  minor  injuries. 

However,  Dr.  Tuffier  had  said,  after  finishing 
looking  me  over,  that  my  back  had  received  a  bad 
bruise  and  strain  and  that  the  blow  had  also  affected 
me  internally. 

He  also  said  that  I  should  most  certainly  be 
"  reforme  "  (discharged  from  the  army)  and  return 
home  to  rest  and  recuperate.  If  I  did  this  I  would 
recover  in  a  few  months. 


Two  Miracles  277 


Although  I  had  been  looking  forward  to  a  pos- 
sible leave,  the  idea  of  going  at  that  time  had  not 
entered  my  head;  but,  when  I  heard  his  words  my 
heart  jumped  joyfully,  and  I  instantly  knew  that 
there  was  nothing  else  on  earth  that  I  wanted  to  do 
so  much  as  get  back  to  America  in  a  hurry.  Kill- 
ing Boches  could  not  compare  with  it  as  an  impelling 
desire,  for,  although  my  fall  had  not  cured  me  of 
my  eagerness  to  fly  and  fight,  my  ambition  along 
those  lines  had  waned  with  the  coming  of  my  great 
physical  weakness. 

"  Go  back  to  Luneville,"  he  commanded,  "  and 
wait  for  your  orders.  I  will  write  to  your  Division 
Commander  a  personal  recommendation  for  your 
discharge." 

I  obeyed  his  instructions,  and  for  three  days  more 
remained  quiet,  resting,  eating  and  sleeping.  Then 
the  mail  brought  me  a  brief  order  from  the  Chief 
of  the  Eighth  Army  at  Nancy,  which  instructed  me 
to  appear  at  headquarters  there  at  ten  A.  M.  on 
March  the  twenty-ninth. 

When  I  reached  the  office  at  the  place  and  time 


278  Go,  Get  'Em! 


appointed  I  found  the  Colonel  commanding  our 
Southwestern  division,  a  Major  or  two,  and  several 
Captains  assembled  in  conclave.  The  first-men- 
tioned greeted  me  pleasantly,  and,  while  I  stood  at 
attention,  he  read  a  brief  summary  of  my  career  in 
the  French  army,  enlistment  and  record  of  my  vic- 
tories and  of  having  been  shot  down  and  wounded. 
Then  he  said,  "  The  Board  has  recommended  that 
you  receive  the  re  forme,  Number  two  —  which 
means  an  honorable  discharge." 

I  saluted,  thanked  him  and  stepped  out  into  the 
Spring  sunshine  as  happy  as  ever  I  had  been  in  my 
life.  /  was  going  home. 

My  return  to  Luneville,  packing  up,  final  fare- 
wells, and  the  journey  to  Paris  were  all  accom- 
plished in  record  time.  Once  there,  my  first  act  was 
to  call  upon  Mr.  Thaw  of  the  United  States  Consu- 
late, and  make  application  for  my  passport. 

It  was  three  weeks  before  this  would  be  ready 
for  me,  and  I  spent  the  time  very  quietly. 

In  one  respect  I  found  Paris  considerably 
changed.  You  have  read  that  the  populace  laugh 


Two  Miracles  279 

at  Big  Bertha,  the  Huns'  deviling  gun  that  sends  its 
shells  into  the  city  from  seventy-five  miles  away. 
It  is  not  true;  at  least  it  was  not  true  in  April. 
They  were  not  terror-stricken  by  any  means,  nor 
was  their  morale  badly  shaken  by  that  new,  uncanny 
menace  —  which  is  in  reality  much  less  dangerous 
than  the  air  raiders  to  whom  they  have  become  ac- 
customed—  but  it  had  certainly  gotten  on  their 
nerves.  As  airplanes  could  generally  be  detected  in 
advance,  the  Alert e  gave  noisy  warning  of  their 
approach,  and  the  people  might,  if  they  wished,  dive 
for  cellars  and  subways.  But  Big  Bertha's  evil  off- 
spring came  without  warning,  other  than  its  own 
whistle,  which  was  not  a  warning  but  a  signal  that 
it  had  passed. 

Even  the  sound  that  it  makes  is  very  slight,  nor 
nearly  as  loud  as  the  drowning  hum  or  shriek  of 
the  big  gun's  shells  at  the  front,  and  it  is,  therefore, 
a  horrible,  silent  peril  which  cannot  be  guarded 
against  in  any  fashion,  and  takes  its  hellish  toll  as 
indiscriminately  as  Fate  herself. 

Many   of   the    richer   people   left    Paris   hastily 


280  Go,  Get  'Em! 


after  it  began  its  work,  the  people  of  the  hotel 
told  me. 

The  newspapers  generally  made  only  the  briefest 
mention  of  its  toll  of  innocent  lives;  but  on  Good 
Friday  the  wrath  of  the  whole  city  burst  into 
flames  over  the  detailed  report  that  scores  of  wor- 
shipers had  been  slaughtered  while  kneeling  in 
church,  and,  as  I  read  of  this  crime,  and  heard  it 
discussed  everywhere  by  people  whose  lips  were 
drawn  back  and  hands  clinched  with  hate  and  hor- 
ror, my  one  hot  anger  against  the  Hun  was  re- 
kindled. I  was  going  home  and  I  was  glad;  but  I 
swore  that  I  would  return  soon,  if  Fate  were  will- 
ing, and  take  up  my  small  part  of  the  work  of 
crushing  the  evil.  On  Easter  Sunday  the  weapon 
of  fright  fulness  claimed  many  more  innocent  vic- 
tims, this  time  in  a  Maternity  Hospital.  It  was  a 
glorious  day  for  Germany.  She  had  snuffed  out  a 
score  more  prospective  French  soldiers,  in  being  or 
yet  to  be ! 

One  day,  a  little  later,  I  was  walking  by  the  side 
of  the  River  Seine.  Its  surface  was  covered  with 


Two  Miracles  281 


dead  fish.  A  shell  from  Big  Bertha  had  struck  and 
exploded  in  it  that  morning,  a  Gendarme  told  me. 

This  sort  of  thing,  violent  death  striking  down 
wholesale  everything  which  lives,  is  the  daily  lot  of 
Paris.  When  it  comes  to  New  York,  Boston  or 
other  big  cities,  perhaps  Americans  will  learn  how 
to  hate  the  Hun  as  he  deserves. 

During  my  period  of  waiting  for  the  passport 
I  had  another  slight  operation,  the  piece  of  shrapnel 
being  taken  from  the  wound  near  my  eye.  Other- 
wise my  stay  was  uneventful  as  far  as  personal  ex- 
periences went,  and  the  receipt  of  my  permission  to 
return  to  America,  the  trip  to  Bordeaux,  and  the 
voyage  home  on  the  Espagne  were  all  undistin- 
guished by  anything  of  peculiar  interest.  They  are 
not  part  of  my  story  of  that  eventful  twelve  months, 
and  have  no  place  in  it. 

If  such  a  narration  can  have  a  moral,  this  is  it, 
and  it  is  drawn  from  my  own  personal  experiences. 

We  cannot  afford  to  take  the  Hun  lightly,  or  take 
anything  for  granted  in  connection  with  Germany. 
He  is  a  terrible  fighter;  she  is  a  terrible  world- 


282  Go,  Get  'Em! 


menace.  Every  now  and  then  we  read  in  the  daily 
papers  that  a  number  of  Boche  soldiers  have  sur- 
rendered, starved,  worn  out  and  glad  to  be  prison- 
ers. Doubtless  all  this  is  true,  but  it  is  highly 
unsafe  to  draw  any  general  conclusions  from  such 
reports.  The  German  soldier  may  be  driven  to 
fight,  but  he  can  fight,  and  will. 

There  is  no  use  in  blinding  ourselves  to  the  obvi- 
ous fact  that,  if  the  war  should  stop  now,  Germany 
would  be  the  winner.  We  have  got  to  beat  the 
Boche,  whether  it  takes  one  year  or  ten,  and,  as  the 
Captain  of  the  Blue  Devils  who  have  lately  been 
touring  America  put  it,  "  We  don't  know  how  long 
the  war  is  going  to  last,  but  it  will  last  until  some 
one  is  beaten  —  and  it  will  not  be  we !  " 

In  telling  my  story  to  many  audiences  since  I  re- 
turned home  I  have  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  say 
that  we  airmen  are  not  the  heroes  that  we  are  ac- 
claimed. I  say  it  now.  Flying  is  safe,  under  ordi- 
nary conditions,  and  under  extraordinary  ones  it  is 
nine-tenths  luck  —  and  the  other  tenth  is  foolish- 
ness. It  is  the  men  in  the  trenches  who  are  the  real 


Two  Miracles  283 


heroes  of  this  war,  for  theirs  is  the  hardest  work; 
theirs  the  most  horrible  conditions. 

All  honor  to  them,  yet  I  cannot  but  believe  that 
the  war  will  be  won  in  the  air,  and  only  when  the 
Allies  have  established  a  complete  supremacy  there. 
Every  military  man  knows  that  the  aircraft  are  the 
eyes  of  a  modern  army,  and,  if  we  can  wholly  blind 
the  Prussian  eagle,  the  battle  will  be  half  won. 

Besides,  they  have  of  late  become  a  new  factor 
in  land  fighting,  and  a  large  squadron  of  them, 
equipped  with  rapid-fire  guns,  and  flying  low  over 
moving  masses  of  the  enemy's  troops,  can  rake 
them  at  short  range  and  accomplish,  with  compara- 
tively little  danger,  more  than  a  hundred  or  a  thou- 
sand times  their  number  on  foot.  The  war  has 
assumed  a  new  phase,  one  of  movement,  and  the 
"  cavalry  of  the  air  "  will  play  the  most  important 
part  in  it,  I  firmly  believe. 

The  French  bore  the  burden  of  air  fighting  at 
first,  and  bore  it  nobly;  England,  with  her  wonder- 
ful "  Royal  Flying  Corps,"  is  now  assuming  the 
Lion's  share,  and  America  has  begun  to  do  her  part. 


284  Go,  Get  'Em! 


It  is  highly  fitting  that,  before  the  war  is  ended,  we 
should  assume  the  Eagle's  share  of  this  all-impor- 
tant work. 

American  youths  are,  by  racial  characteristics  and 
training,  particularly  well  fitted  to  take  the  lead  in 
this  greatest  of  all  games,  and,  since  America  gave 
being  to  the  first  airplane,  she  should  now  resume 
supremacy  in  its  use  —  a  supremacy  which  she 
should  never  have  lost. 

We  need,  not  hundreds,  nor  thousands,  but  tens 
of  thousands  of  airplanes,  trained  aviators  and  me- 
chanics at  the  front,  and  need  them  there  imme- 
diately. 

Wake  up,  America,  and  stretch  your  wings,  the 
wings  of  Victory! 


THE  END 


GO,  GET  'EM 


William  A.  Wellman 

Marechal  des  Logis  of  Escadrille  N.  87 
THE  TRUE  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  AMERICAN  AVIATOR  OF 
THE  LAFAYETTE  FLYING  CORPS  WHO  WAS  THE  ONLY 
YANKEE  FLYER  FIGHTING  OVER  GENERAL  PERSHING'S 
BOYS  OF  THE  RAINBOW  DIVISION  IN  LORRAINE  WHEN 
THEY  FIRST  "WENT  OVER  THE  TOP." 

Cloth  decorative,  I2mo,  illustrated,  $1.50 

When  a  young  Yankee  athlete  makes  up  his  mind  to 
play  a  part  in  the  most  thrilling  game  which  the  world 
has  ever  witnessed — war  in  mid  air — the  result  is  cer- 
tain to  produce  a  heart-thrilling  story. 

Many  such  tales  are  being  told  to-day,  but  few,  if 
any,  can  hope  to  approach  that  lived  and  now  written 
by  Sergeant  "Billy"  Wellman,  for  he  engaged  in  some 
of  the  most  amazing  air  battles  imaginable,  during  the 
course  of  which  he  sent  tumbling  to  destruction  seven 
Boche  machines — achievements  which  won  for  him  the 
coveted  Croix  de  Guerre  with  two  palms. 

Marechal  Wellman  was  the  only  American  in  the  air 
over  General  Pershing's  famous  "Rainbow  Division" 
when  the  Yankee  troops  made  their  historic  first  over- 
the-tpp  attack  on  the  Hun,  and  during  that  battle  he 
was  in  command  of  the  lowest  platoon  of  French  fight- 
ing planes  and  personally  disposed  of  two  of  the 
enemy's  attacking  aircraft. 

His  experience  included  far  more  than  fighting  above 
the  firmament.  He  was  in  Paris  and  Nancy  during 
four  distinct  night  bombing  raids  by  the  Boche  and 
participated  in  rescues  made  necessary  thereby;  he, 
with  a  comrade,  chased  two  hostile  machines  far  into 
Germany  and  shot  up  their  aviation  field ;  he  was  lost 
in  a  blizzard  on  Christmas  Day;  he  was  in  intimate 
touch  with  the  men  and  officers  of  the  Rainbow  Divi- 
sion, and  was  finally  shot  down  by  anti-aircraft  guns 
from  a  height  of  5300  metres,  escaping  death  by  a 
miracle,  but  so  seriously  wounded  that  his  honorable 
discharge  followed  immediately. 

Sergeant  Wellman's  story  is  unquestionably  the  most 
unusual  and  illuminating  yet  told  in  print. 


THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES 
OF  BROMLEY  BARNES 


George  Barton 


Author  of  "The  Mystery   of   the   Red  Flame"  "The 

World's  Greatest  Military  Spies  and  Secret 

Service   Agents,"   etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  izmo,  illustrated  ,  $1.50 


Mr.  Barton  first  "broke  into  print,"  as  the  saying 
goes,  with  a  mystery  story  entitled  "The  Scoop  of  the 
Session,"  which  was  published  in  Collier's  a  number  of 
years  ago,  and  has  the  reputation  of  having  written 
more  short  detective  stories  than  any  other  writer  in 
the  United  States. 

In  this  new  book  Mr.  Barton  sets  forth  in  absorbing 
fashion  the  Strange  Adventures  of  Bromley  Barnes, 
retired  detective,  but  whose  interest  in  the  solution  of 
baffling  cases  in  public  and  private  life  is  just  as  keen 
as  in  his  days  of  active  Government  service. 

Worried  and  harassed  Government  officials,  also  per- 
plexed and  anxious  private  individuals,  seek  the  services 
of  the  astute  detective  in  national  problems  and  per- 
sonal matters,  and  just  how  the  suave  and  diplomatic 
Barnes  clears  away  mysteries  makes  a  story  that  is 
mighty  good  reading. 

Q8D6QBQ8QB96C8089908Q8089 


DAWSON   BLACK,    RETAIL 
MERCHANT 

P§  Sy  Harold  Whttehead 

Assistant  Professor  of  Business  Method,  The  College 

of    Business   Administration,    Boston    University, 

author  of  "The   Business  Career  of  Peter 

Flint,"  "Principles  of  Salesmanship,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  John  Goss,  cloth,  izmo, 


As  Assistant  Professor  of  Business  Method  in  Boston 
University's  famous  College  of  Business  Administra- 
tion, the  author's  lectures  have  attracted  widespread 
attention,  and  the  popularity  of  his  stories  of  business 
life,  which  have  appeared  serially  in  important  trade 
magazines  and  newspapers  all  over  the  country,  has 
created  an  insistent  demand  for  their  book  publication. 

DAWSON  BLACK  is  the  story  of  a  young  man's 
first  year  in  business  as  a  store  owner  —  a  hardware 
store,  but  the  principles  illustrated  apply  equally  to 
any  other  kind  of  retail  store.  In  bright,  pithy  style 
the  author  narrates  the  triumphs  and  disasters,  the 
joys  and  sorrows,  the  problems  and  their  solutions  with 
which  a  young  employer,  just  commencing  his  career, 
is  confronted.  Relations  with  employees,  means  of 
fighting  competition,  and  trade  psychology  in  adver- 
tising are  some  of  the  important  subjects  treated. 

The  hero's  domestic  career  lends  the  "human 
interest"  touch,  so  that  the  book  skilfully  combines 
fact  with  fiction,  or  "business  with  pleasure,"  and  is 
both  fascinating  and  informative. 


y&xm&am&xm&xowa^^ 


THE   MAN    WHO   WON 

OR,  THE  CAREER  AND  ADVENTURES  OF 
THE  YOUNGER  MR.  HARRISON 


3)y  Leon  D.  Hirsch 


Cloth  decorative,  i2mo,  illustrated  by  William  Van 
Dresser,  $1.50 


MR.  HIRSCH  has  given  the  public  a  novel  decidedly 
out  of  the  ordinary  —  a  stirring  story  of  political  life 
combined  with  a  romance  of  absorbing  interest. 

In  compelling  fashion  the  author  tells  how  Edward 
Harrison,  recognized  political  boss,  who  had  long  con- 
trolled the  affairs  of  a  prosperous  city,  was  forced  to 
admit  that  his  unprincipled  political  methods  must 
give  way  to  clean  government,  an  exponent  of  which 
he  sees  in  his  son. 

Cleverly  the  author  depicts  Edward  Harrison,  the 
unscrupulous  political  boss ;  Jack  Harrison,  his  son, 
who  differs  quite  a  bit  from  his  father ;  Mrs.  Harrison, 
the  indefatigable  social  climber;  and  Alice  Lane,  a 
bright,  lovable  girl;  and  around  these  widely  different 
characters  Mr.  Hirsch  has  written  a  vivid  story  of 
politics,  ambition,  love,  hate  and  —  best  of  all  —  of 
real  life  that  grips  the  reader. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


WILL  BE  ASSESSED   FOR 

THIS 
WILL 
DAY 
OVER 


n  RETURN 
E  PENALTY 
FOURTH 
TH  DAY 


stf  0  o  1995 


CNN 


REC'Q  LD 


OCtt 


AUG  2  8  1966  2  0 


LD  21-100w-7,'33 


VQ    S>|?9'| 

•    oi-^,.._  — •*— L 


4422 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


